


All That We See or Seem

by tinydooms



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-11-07 14:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 41,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11060817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinydooms/pseuds/tinydooms
Summary: Thirty prompts for the June 2017 Beauty and the Beast challenge





	1. Morning

 

     Early morning has always been Belle's favorite time of day. There is something about being awake before everyone else that fills her with peace. Growing up in Paris and then Villeneuve, Belle has not always had the chance to be the first riser (she has sometimes wondered if anyone around her ever actually slept), but here it is different. Since the day she arrived in the castle, she has risen before anyone else. Usually she makes her way to the library, where she sits and stares at the miracle of the bookshelves surrounding her, at the papers and pens laid out on the table just waiting to be filled with her scribblings. She has never been one for lounging in bed, preferring to be up and doing. But today she leans against the pillows, unwilling to move too much lest she disturb the man beside her.

     Adam. His name is Adam. Belle smiles, at once pleased with this information and ashamed that she had never asked him before he died in her arms. _I wouldn't have told you_ , he had said last night, and she believes him. He did always refer to himself as a creature. Belle runs feather-light fingers over his face. It is still unfamiliar to her; she keeps filling in the smooth cheeks with fur, looking for horns in his thick gold hair. She can see the Beast in his face still, the same shy glances, the same mannerisms. But he is no longer a beast, no longer a creature. A man. _Adam_.

     She couldn't leave him last night, propriety be damned. After the shock of the broken curse had worn off had come the memory of Gaston's hunt across the towers and his own subsequent death, and Adam had sunk down, trembling with delayed reaction. Lumiere and Chapeau and Cogsworth had hauled him inside, examined the bruises mottling his body, wrapped him in banyan and blankets. Mrs. Potts had forced tea and then a little brandy down both their throats. Somehow they had gotten through the rest of that strange, wonderful day, but as the sun set exhilaration had given way to exhaustion, and Belle had insisted that Adam sleep.

 _I'll see you in the morning?_ He had asked, and looked flummoxed when Belle followed him into his room and got into bed beside him. _I told you I'd never leave you again_. He had not protested, but broken into such a smile that her heart had turned over. He climbed up next to her, kissed her mouth quite chastely, and curled up alongside her. Belle had taken him into her arms, pulling him flush against her body, wondering at his hesitancy, winding the blankets around them. And Adam had melted against her in his weariness. A sigh as he wriggled into the pillows, a mumbled _good night, love_ , and he had slept.

     It had taken Belle longer to fall asleep, despite her own exhaustion. She could not, cannot, get the look on his face after the transformation out of her mind's eye. She has never seen anyone look so disbelieving, ever. She lies in the early morning sunlight with Adam in her arms, and the thought will not leave her: _he thought no one could ever love him_.

 _Why?_ Belle cards her fingers through Adam's hair. He sighs in his sleep and turns towards her. His face is peaceful. She smiles, continues to lightly touch and stroke. She knows why. She had seen for herself the temper he has, the anger that festered inside him. Anger at his father, for being a monster, anger at himself for following in his footsteps. He had convinced himself that he was a lost cause. It wasn't until he began to let his true self show that she began to like him. His kindness, his shy jokes, his love of literature and eagerness to share it with her...Belle had never known a male to be so interested in her same interests. She thought that perhaps Adam had been as at sea as she had. He had changed more than she had thought possible.

     It wasn't until he sent her back to her father that she loved him.

     It amazes Belle to think that everyone but her knew how to break the curse, and none of them told her. _You couldn't have loved him if you'd known_ , a tiny voice inside her whispers, and she knows that this is true. She would never have loved him the way he was before the wolves tried to tear him to bits. She knows that he heard Mrs. Potts's confession of neglect that night. It is as if with that admission, some fire inside of him went out. And then he had shown her the library, and the rest, well, the rest was history.

     Belle runs her fingers over Adam's cheeks again. This time he follows them, turning into her hand, before leaping awake. Belle sits back, startled; she has never seen anyone go from lying in deep sleep to wide wakefulness, kneeling in the center of the bed. He looks up at her, gasping, those blue eyes once again filled with wonder and disbelief. He sits back. _It wasn't a dream! No, Adam, you're here. We're here_.

     Adam sags with relief, laughs sheepishly and settles down next to her again. They lie in the rising sunlight, quite innocent, sharing kisses and talking of small things. This is medicine to them both. Belle decides that she will never sleep apart from him again.

 

 

Author's Note: Congratulations on reading this far! Please leave your comments in the box below. :-)

 


	2. Jealousy

 

     Even before he came a beast, Adam was jealous of Lumiere.

     Perhaps jealous was too strong a word. Lumiere had come to the castle from Paris as a teenager, maybe three years after Plumette, though Adam could not be certain of that. Even then Lumiere had glowed with a kind of inner light. A consummate showman, his manners and timing impeccable, Lumiere seemed a constant source of light and laughter. Adam, small and struggling to please his bullying father, had begun to copy the footman's mannerisms. If Lumiere noticed, he didn't say anything, but he was always kind to the prince. He taught Adam how to dress, how to carry himself, did tricks to make him laugh after encounters with his father, and Adam, small and uncertain, loved him for it. Even after his mother died and the world turned grey and formless with grief and fear, Adam knew that Lumiere would always be there.

     It was during those years between his mother's death and the Enchantress's curse that Adam grew to envy the footman, then valet, then maitre d'. Life had been gentle when Princess Maria-Eleanor was still alive; under his mother's protection, Adam had thrived. Without her there was no one to protect him from his father. It was a curious situation, to on the one hand have everything he could possibly want-food, clothes, company-and on the other to have no one at all. Adam had no one. His father did not approve of attachment and strove to separate his son from those he had loved. Mrs. Potts, his English nanny, was sent to the kitchens to act as housekeeper; Cogsworth, the majordomo, was no longer allowed to give Adam the lessons both had enjoyed. One by one Adam's friends among the staff were kept from him, until Adam learned that the only way to keep them in the palace at all was to pretend indifference to them, to stop running to them after his father had hit him, to pretend they weren't there. (They never made a move to help him, either.) But they had each other; they did not grieve for him overmuch. Cogsworth had his difficult wife, Mrs. Potts her husband and child in the village, the valet Chapeau his mother and sisters. Lumiere had Plumette, with whom he was so madly in love that even the prince Adam's father noticed it. And Adam? Adam had no one.

     He tried not to be jealous of his old friend. Lumiere was older, and he was not an aristocrat. Everyone knew that he could marry for love. _Not for you_ , Adam reminded himself whenever he noticed the two of them together. _No one will love you_. Adam loved being with women, loved pleasure, loved sex. But every encounter left him feeling lost, more alone than ever. They were his for a night, a weekend perhaps, and then they were gone, until the next party. They never wrote, they never sought him out in the library or the grounds. Adam learned very quickly as a young man that none of the ladies he was introduced to cared for _him_ , but for his position, his money, his influence. No one cared about the Adam de Courcy who loved books, loved dancing, loved dogs. They wanted the Prince de Courcy, _Prince d'Ardennes_ , who could introduce them to the king at Versailles, who could offer them a taste of power and prestige. And so he hid behind the mask they offered him, locking his heart away and growing colder with each passing day. It was hard to look at Lumiere and Plumette and see them so happy together, whispering and laughing and _making a life._ Whenever he saw them smile across a room at each other, so certain that they belonged with each other, Adam felt sick with envy. After a while, he stopped looking.

     After they were cursed, Adam hid for weeks in the West Wing, sick at heart. He heard the Enchantress's voice over and over, telling him that he must _learn to love, and be loved in return_. Who would love a beast? Lying on his floor, surrounded by shattered glass and shredded pillows, Adam hated everyone for whom love was second nature, everyone who had never had to lock their hearts away to keep themselves safe.

     And then Lumiere came to him, and threatened to burn the door down if he did not open up. Adam, knowing that the maitre d' would make good on his threat, opened the door. Lumiere was a candelabrum. He was perhaps eighteen inches tall, barely reaching Adam's knee, and he had not lost one whit of his personality. The West Wing was cold, surrounded by snow and ice, its fire unlit for many days. Lumiere threw logs into the hearth and lit them, ordered Adam to warm himself. Adam, too despondent to disobey, sank down before the flames. Lumiere settled next to him. _A fine mess, master_. Adam closed his eyes, guilt filling him anew. _I don't even know what love is_. Lumiere patted his arm with a waxy candle. _Luckily for you, I do. It is putting someone else's needs before yours, because you care for them. It is being your best self for them._ Adam scoffed a laugh. _Easy for you to say. You have Plumette. She loved you from the moment you arrived._ Lumiere gave him a surprised look. Adam couldn't meet his servant's eyes. He knew that Lumiere would see the jealousy there, the fierce wish in Adam's heart that someone would look at him the way Lumiere and Plumette looked at each other. But Lumiere sensed it anyway, for he patted Adam's arm again. _Do not despair, Master. Someday you will have your own Plumette_.

     Adam snorted. No one has loved him yet. Now they never will.

*

     When the curse has broken and Adam and Belle finally manage to stop kissing, they run together through the castle in search of the staff. They are outside, surrounded by the villagers. Adam sees Lumiere and Plumette standing near the balcony, arms entwined, and breaks into a grin. He wants to shout for the world to hear _she loves me! Lumiere, Belle loves me!_ but he can see that they already know. Of course they know; they are human again, and remembered. Lumiere catches Adam up into an embrace. _I told you so_. Adam hugs him back, bursting with joy. He has his Belle, and Lumiere has his Plumette. They are loved. _They are loved_.

 

 

 

Author's Note: Thank you for all of the comments and kudos! They feed my little writer's heart and give me the warm fuzzies. Let me know what you think below!


	3. Midnight

 

     Plumette has never believed in miracles, not since what began as a common cold turned into plague and killed sister, mama, brother, sister, sister, papa, granny, uncle, one after the other in one hot Parisian week. Plumette had been left on her own in a house of death, two days shy of her eleventh birthday. She did not remember much of what happened after her uncle had died and she was left alone, only that she had stumbled around the house, packing random items into a rucksack before slipping out into the hot Parisian night. She had walked and walked and cried and walked, no purpose in mind, until she had reached a remote country castle, one which sprang out of ornate gardens as if put there by some eccentric fairy godmother, all curves and turrets. Plumette, hot, exhausted, hungry, and hopeless, had stared up at the place until her feet had taken her of their own accord around to the kitchen doors. She had knocked and been admitted by a red-haired Englishwoman, who gave her tea and toast until she was no longer dead on her feet. Mrs. Potts gave her a new white frock and sent her to bathe, and when Plumette came out she was presented to Mr. Cogsworth as the newest upstairs housemaid.

     The majordomo eyed her not unkindly. “I was about to start looking for a new maid,” he remarked. “Well, Plumette, welcome to Chateau de Courcy.”

     That was fifteen years ago, and though she still wore white and still worked as a maid, Plumette was no longer that hopeless little girl, alone and unloved in a strange place. She was not a _girl_ at all, to be precise. Girls did not have feathers for legs or slender ivory handles for bodies. Girls did not fly about on feathered wings. Plumette was Plumette, an enchanted feather duster made of ivory and feathers and paint, and she still did not believe in miracles.

     But she could not stifle the flare of hope in her ivory breast whenever she caught sight of the castle's guest, Belle from Villeneuve. Plumette had seen right away that despite her simple clothing and stout boots, Belle was no common villager, just as she had known right away that the young woman's father was a man of taste (he had admired Cogsworth's gears and casing, which still sent Plumette into helpless giggles). Belle had put Prince Adam into his place almost immediately, and Plumette admired her courage greatly. Maybe if the rest of them had done so from the beginning, she thought, they would not have found themselves in this mess.

     Lumiere had decided from the first moment, of course, that Belle was entirely suitable for Adam, and was hellbent on forcing the prince into a love affair. Plumette had doubted the likelihood of this happening until Belle had returned to the castle after her ignominious departure, half-carrying the master, who was shouting in pain and outrage. The girl had hauled him into the West Wing, stripped him of the ratty shroud and filthy shirt he insisted on wearing, and bathed his wounds, telling him off the entire time. Plumette, watching this, had felt that if they managed not to murder each other, they might well be on the road to friendship.

     Adam had not always been a monster. When she had first arrived in the castle, he had been very much interested in having her as a playmate. Plumette, missing her own little brother and sisters, had indulged the younger boy, playing hide and seek and tag with him whenever she could, and telling him stories about her life in Paris. The prince's mother, Maria-Eleanor, had once taken Plumette's face in her hands and told her that she was a brave and beautiful girl. The prince and his mother had even given Plumette a present at Christmas that year, a little notebook and a set of drawing pencils that she carefully copied full of Versailles fashion plates. But then Maria-Eleanor had died, and his father's war on Adam had increased until the younger prince was such a little monster that he barely glanced Plumette's way. Plumette hadn't blamed him, not really. The elder prince may have been an aristocrat, but he beat his son like the drunkard on Plumette's old lane, and she felt that it was small wonder Adam did what he had to do to avoid his father's wrath.

     She had never raised a finger to help him, and the Enchantress had cursed her for that. She had cursed all of them for it.

     The day that weighed most heavily on Plumette's mind was the day when, not so long after Princess Maria-Eleanor had died, she had been dusting the little drawing room when the Prince de Courcy dragged his son in, screaming in outrage about some offense or other the boy had committed. The elder prince never took note of the servants, but Plumette and Adam had locked eyes across the room for a split second. Please help, Adam's blue eyes had beseeched her, but Plumette, thirteen years old and frightened, had turned away and pretended to be invisible while the Prince de Courcy took his walking stick and beat his son until the boy lay on the floor, moaning.

     “Be a man!” the older prince had snarled, and stormed out, leaving Adam alone with bruises and a split lip.

     And Plumette had slipped quietly out through the servants' entrance, leaving Adam weeping on the floor behind her. What she should have done haunted her for years. But she had been a child, fearful of attracting the Prince's attention, fearful of losing the only place she could call home.

     Small wonder that Adam had turned his back on them all.

     Everything was different now that Belle was in the castle. After that first night, when Plumette and the rest had watched, gasping every now and again, as Belle shouted down the master, Adam seemed to have lost the fire that drove him to such anger. Plumette wondered if he had heard Mrs. Potts telling Belle about how they had all left him to his father's whims. (Surely he could not have fallen asleep so quickly that he _didn't_ hear.) Or perhaps he just didn't want Belle to yell at him again. Whatever the case, he had opened up the library to Belle. The library had been Adam's one refuge over the years, Plumette knew (how many times had she come upon him hiding in an alcove with a book, while dusting?), though he had abandoned it since the curse. Though Plumette had been inclined to agree with Cogsworth's opinion that Belle would never love Adam, she couldn't deny that the two of them had been much friendlier since the discovery of their mutual love of reading.

     And now Plumette had the place to dust again. It had never really been neglected-the library staff had been cursed, too-but it made Plumette happy to be able to contribute in some way towards the easy rapport that was growing between her prince and his young lady. And so it was that late one night, Plumette made her way into the library, to make one last sweep before Belle's dawn appearance. She flew through the door and flicked her way over the tables, tidying the ruffled papers and relaying the pens and inkpots. Humming, she made her way to the northern fireplace to see if they needed more logs in the morning-and came up short, face to face with Adam.

     He was sitting in one of the armchairs, wrapped in an old velvet banyan that Chapeau had unearthed after Belle had burned his ratty old cloak. There was a book in his hand, unopened. He looked startled to see her.

     “Master!” Plumette exclaimed. “Forgive my intrusion; I meant only to tidy and thought you were long a-bed.”

     Adam gave her that small, careful smile he had adopted since they had all cringed at him. “It's all right, Plumette. I couldn't sleep.”

     She hovered in front of him, uncertain. “Shall I ask Mrs. Potts to bring you some tea?”

     “No, no, I'm all right. Don't wake her.”

     Plumette blinked. That was new-that was Belle's influence. “Are...you all right, your grace?”

     Adam sighed, and she was sure he wouldn't answer. But after a pause, he said, “Plumette, what is it to love?”

 _What is it to love_ -not _what is it_ _ **to be in**_ _love_. Plumette blinked. “Certainly you must know, sir.”

     “I'm not sure I do.” Adam toyed with his book. “I've been trying to research it, but I can't seem to put my finger on it. You and Lumiere...you seem to know.”

     “But master, you know love,” Plumette insisted. “You loved your mother, no?”

     Adam looked surprised. “Well, yes.”

     “ _Et voila_ ,” Plumette replied, swishing her feathers. She was not about to explain the difference between love and lust to him. She knew that he understood lust. How many mornings had she sent disheveled ladies out of his bedroom?

     Adam gave her a narrow look. “It's not the same and you know it.”

     “This is true,” Plumette admitted, and sighed. If they were going to talk, she may as well get comfortable. She flitted up to the mantle piece and settled herself. “Lumiere...he was my best friend after he came to the castle. He made me laugh, made me feel like myself. He made me feel better about myself-does that make sense? I felt that he saw me for who I am, and loved me because of it. That's what love is.”

     Adam looked down at his paws. “Belle has seen who I am. Do you think she likes me?”

     “She talks to you, doesn't she? You take your meals together, and you read together. You do not do that with someone you dislike,” Plumette said.

     Adam shrugged. “I've pretended to like an awful lot of people I despised. And pretended to hate those I really care about.”

     A silence fell between them. Plumette, looking at her prince, remembered the pleading look he'd given her that day she watched his father beat him. He had looked at her differently after that. After a time he had stopped looking at her at all.

     “Do you know what my most regretted memory is?” she said abruptly.

     Adam looked up, surprised. “That you ever came to work here, I suppose.”

     “Nonsense, this castle is my home. No, it is that I did not stand up for you that day in the little drawing room, when your father hurt you, and that I did not help you at all after.” For a moment Adam stares; she can see him remembering. “I should have gone up to you, hugged you, given you my hankie, but I was too frightened. I didn't know what to do and I left you there, when before we were friends. A true friend would never have done that. I'm sorry.”

     Adam looked into the dying fire, clutching his book. He could shout at her now, or he could not. Plumette watched him closely.

     “I...knew I couldn't count on anyone after that day,” he said at last. “But he would have sent you away if you had tried to defend me. I knew that. I wanted you to stay nearby-all of you-so I turned my back on you. Does that make sense?”

     Plumette felt her heart crack a little. So they had all ignored each other to try to protect each other. No wonder Adam had been so angry.

     “You must never think we don't care, master,” she said at last. “We have always cared.”

     Adam gave her that small, shy smile. “Thank you, Plumette.”

     “And I think it is safe to say that Belle likes you a great deal more than when she arrived. Now that you're being a gentleman, you know.”

     “I know.”

     “And we have faith in you. You mustn't be afraid anymore.”

 _We are not going to leave you now_ , she wanted to say. _Not again. Have courage, Adam. Have faith._

 

 

 

Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think in the comments!


	4. Bath

 

     “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle Belle, wake up.”

 _Wake up_...Belle rolled over, grumbling a little. She was perfectly comfortable where she was, thank you. But the voice continued insisting in that same little whisper, and Belle finally cracked her eyes open.

     Plumette was there, bending over her, her own brown eyes filled with amusement.

     “I am sorry to wake you, mademoiselle, but Madame de Garderobe and I have need of you,” she said.

     Belle blinked and was suddenly awake. Awake, and not in her own bed. Awake, with Adam's arm flung wide across her belly. Awake, and unmarried, and in bed with her...what was he, exactly? Not a lover, not technically, not in the way most people would use that word. Her Adam. And here was Plumette, witness to the whole thing.

     Oops.

     “Sorry, Plumette, I...”

     “It's all right, mademoiselle. Come, come, I have everything ready.”

     Belle sat up, rubbing her eyes. It was the second morning after the curse had broken, and things were beginning to return to normal-or as normal as the castle would ever get. Beside her, Adam sighed a little but did not wake. Belle felt this was a good thing; all she needed was for him to open those blue eyes of his and give her his lazy, happy morning smile to make her decide that wallowing in bed was a worthwhile way to spend the morning. Instead, she rolled out of bed and let Plumette put her into her dressing gown. She blushed again, embarrassed despite the chaste nightgown she wore.

     “You needn't be ashamed, mademoiselle,” Plumette whispered. “None of us have been sleeping alone since the curse broke.”

     “I have nightmares,” Belle whispered back, following Plumette out of Adam's bedroom. “And so does he. It helps to have someone nearby.”

     Plumette nodded in understanding, and Belle began to feel better. She followed the maid through a hidden door in the woodwork, into the servants' hallway that ran parallel to the main corridors. That was a relief; she wouldn't come across anyone else to witness the fact that she was sleeping in the same bed as her...Adam. Curiosity began to build in Belle-what did Plumette and Madame de Garderobe need for her at seven o'clock in the morning? Curiosity turned to bewilderment as they entered Belle's own bedroom. It was filled with morning sunlight, and the undisturbed bed was covered in all sorts of silks and linens and velvets, a myriad of colors and patterns, ribbons and notions. The door into the little washroom was open, too, and scented steam curled through it into the room. Madame de Garderobe stood at the foot of the bed, thoughtfully comparing two different shades of blue-green silk. She looked round at Belle and Plumette and dropped the fabric, swooping down to kiss Belle on both cheeks.

     “Good morning, mademoiselle! I trust you slept well? We have your bath ready,” she said.

     Belle looked from Madame to the fabric-covered bed to the washroom. “...What's going on?”

     Plumette and Madame traded a comical look. “We are declaring an intervention,” Plumette said. “We must discuss your wardrobe now that you are, in fact, a princess.”

     “I'm not a princess!”

     “But you will be,” Madame de Garderobe said. “Now, off you go, _carissa_ , while the bathwater is hot. Plumette and I will wait.”

     Bemused, Belle made her way into the washroom. She had no small suspicion that this was about clothing. Princess, indeed. The thought _I'm just a villager_ echoed in Belle's mind as she made use of the castle's fine soaps and endless supply of hot water. Just a Parisian girl who had traveled France with her father until settling down in Villeneuve. _Ugh_ , Villeneuve. Belle shuddered despite the hot water. _Never again_. The sooner papa moved to the castle, the better.

     Rising from her bath at last, Belle wrapped herself in a soft towel and contemplated the tray of lotions and oils that Plumette had set out for her. Here was another luxury, so normal in this castle. A week ago she had not used the potions at all, not wanting to get used to them, but now? It couldn't hurt. She selected a light oil and rubbed it into her skin. It smelled of flowers and sunshine, and made her smile. Then it was into the toweling robe that Plumette had hung on the back of the door, and out into her bedroom once again.

     “All right, what is this about?” Belle asked, surveying her friends.

     The two women exchanged another amused glance. Belle saw that they had sorted the fabrics into different piles, and laid out clean drawers and a chemise for her.

     “We must plan your wardrobe, mademoiselle,” Plumette said. “Your noble wardrobe.”

     “My...what?”

     “Sit down, _carissa_ ,” Madame de Garderobe said, steering Belle into a chair. “We mean your wardrobe as lady of the house. It will be rather different than what you are used to, and we mean to make you as comfortable as possible, while still looking your best.”

     Oh.

     “But I'm just a villager!”

     “You are no such thing,” Madame de Garderobe replied. “Perhaps you were, but not anymore. Now you are the lady of the house, and you must dress the part.”

     “ _Oui_ ,” agreed Plumette. “And luckily it seems that we have not been out of the world for as long as we had thought, so the fashion papers we have on hand are not _too_ dated. I have written to Versailles as well, for new ones.”

     Belle had not known that one could write to Versailles for fashion papers, or even that fashion had seasons. But she understood Plumette's relief about the date: one of the first things Adam and the staff had ascertained after the curse was the date-the fifteenth of June, 17--, a mere four months since the fateful night wherein they had been cursed. (Small wonder, then, that Chip hadn't aged, Adam mentioned to Belle after they had all stopped screaming and hugging each other. They had truly been out of time.)

     The problem, she supposed, was less the clothing than her own confusion as to her place in the household now. She had gone from prisoner to guest to lady of the household, apparently, in such a short time it made her head swim. True, she had broken the curse by loving Adam. True, she shared his bed. True, she couldn't imagine being anywhere but here, with him, with all of them, forever. But no one had said as much until today.

     She also had an idea that “ladies of the house” dripped in jewels and pearls and huge skirts, and Belle was emphatically not about to do that. But Plumette and Madame de Garderobe seemed to be reading her mind, for the sketches they presented to her were far more modest than the ladies whose portraits graced the halls.

     “We are not at court,” Madame said, “So we can eschew the more extravagant items. I remember how you dislike panniers, so we will make do with simple petticoats, like we did with your yellow gown. A _robe a la francaise_ would suit you far better than a _robe a l'anglais_ , I think, and of course we can update your skirt and bodice ensemble to a more elegant manifestation.”

     “And we will need to dress your hair,” Plumette agreed, “but again we need only make a variation on the theme you already have, mademoiselle Belle. If I may?”

     And between the two of them, Belle got dressed. First they put her into stays and a series of embroidered petticoats, the last of which was of a pale green striped satin. Then came the _robe_ itself, of the same green satin, with a cream stomacher embroidered in red and blue flowers. The sleeves opened at the shoulders to allow Belle's chemise sleeves through, draping in the back to a point that reminded Belle of the saints in medieval stained glass windows. There were even hidden pockets under the skirts, deep enough to hold a book in. The ensemble was simple, elegant, and quite the most beautiful thing that Belle had ever worn.

     “We can bustle the skirts up, if you like, but I think perhaps we should leave them down for now,” Madame de Garderobe said. She clasped her hands and beamed. “Oh, you do look beautiful. I knew it from the moment I first saw you. Did I not say so, Plumette?”

     Plumette, busily pinning and tucking Belle's hair, nodded. “You did, Madame. Mademoiselle Belle, would you prefer flowers or ribbons in your hair?”

     “Um,” Belle said. “Flowers.”

     And Plumette tucked a handful of pale pink roses into Belle's simple coiffeur. “ _Voila_! Beautiful! A tiny bit of power- _pouf-pouf_ -and there you are. You are stunning, mademoiselle.”

     Belle, looking in the vanity mirror, had to smile. She _did_ look stunning, a more grown-up version of herself. She could walk in this dress, run even, and would still look good. She couldn't help the excitement that built inside her as she turned first one way, than the next. Perhaps she could get used to being the lady of the house.

     “Thank you,” she said to her attendants, turning to them. “Really. I don't know what I would do without you.”

     The ladies beamed at her. “You can count on us, Mademoiselle Belle. We have been longing to dress you up again since your first dance.”

 

*

Belle made her way downstairs, marveling at how much she enjoyed the swish of fabric around her legs. The last item that Plumette and Madame had dressed her in had been a pair of cunningly made tooled leather boots, perfect for walking. Belle skipped a little, her heart singing. It was a beautiful day, she wore a beautiful dress, and her friends knew her well enough to not force her into court shoes. Plumette's parting words rang in her ears.

     “Remember, mademoiselle, that fashion is what _you_ make of it. You are an arbiter of fashion now. You need not fear it.”

 _O brave new world, that had such people in't_. Belle chuckled. She couldn't wait to show Adam.

 

 

 

Author's Note: Sorry for the late post. For some reason I found this prompt very difficult. Please let me know what you think! Here is Belle's dress, if you'd like to see: http://tinydooms.tumblr.com/post/161412932117/lookingbackatfashionhistory-womans-stomacher

 

 


	5. Leather

     Adam woke, deep in the night, sweating and shaking. Another nightmare. He supposed that he would have to get used to them, but that did not help the flood of fear that coursed through him as he slept. He shuddered away from the dream, rubbing his human hands over his human face and through his human hair, to remind himself that he was not the Beast anymore, that the curse was ended and he was free to live and love and be happy. He sank back against the pillows, breathing deeply in the hope of getting his heart to cease trying to escape his chest. More than anything, Adam wished that Belle was with him tonight, as had been her wont since she had broken the curse. But Belle had fallen asleep in the library after dinner, and Adam had not had the courage to carry her up to the West Wing in full view of her father. Maurice may have forgiven him for his monstrous behavior, but Adam doubted that his benevolence extended to watching his daughter go to bed with a man they still both hardly knew.

     Adam twisted under the bedclothes. The nightmare had been so real, too real. The hunter had stood over him while Adam knelt, frozen, staring up into the barrel of the man's gun. Belle had been screaming in the background, there was a flash of light and a roar as the gun went off-and Adam had woken with a scream in his throat. It was always the same, every night. At least normally Belle was there. Sighing, Adam rolled out of bed and wrapped himself in a banyan and slippers. He was too awake to go back to sleep. Maybe a book would help. If he couldn't curl up beside Belle, the library was the next best thing.

     The library, with its thousands of books, its maps and papers, its inks and pens and globes and scientific equipment. Belle's refuge, and Adam's before that, and his mother's before. Adam loved the library more than any other room in the castle. It was redolent of leather and old books, of beeswax candles and glue and smoke from the fires. It was a safe, comfortable scent. As a child, Adam had spent rainy afternoons with his mother, curled up before the fire listening to her read. After her death, his tutors had taught him there, opening his eyes to the history of the world, the natural sciences, astronomy and geography and mathematics. The library was safety; it was a means of escape from the increasing nightmare of his life. And then he had been cursed, and it was years before he had been able to bring himself to visit that sacred space, to allow himself to escape his castle through the books it held inside.

     The castle was dark and quiet as Adam walked. He had not bothered to light a candle; the moon was out, and besides, he had walked this way a thousand times before. But the familiarity of the corridors did not assuage the residual fear Adam still felt from his nightmare. The hunter seemed to stalk the shadows, and he all but ran, ringing his hands. _Think of something else._ A book to lull himself to sleep. What should it be? Something comfortable, soothing. Poetry, maybe. Maybe Milton? Some of _Paradise Lost_ was quite lyrical. John Donne, perhaps, if he wanted to confuse himself to sleep. So musing, Adam gained the library doors and all but leaped into that comforting space. For a moment he stood against the doors, breathing deepy, before realizing that the room itself seemed wide awake. The flames in the northern fireplace were dancing merrily, the candles there were lit, and someone else was sitting in the armchair Belle had claimed as her own. Not just any someone, Adam saw as he drew nearer-Maurice.

     The artist looked up as Adam approached. Adam saw that he, too, was wearing a banyan and slippers, though Maurice's were much more worn-in and comfortable than Adam's. He held his sketchbook and a charcoal pencil, his glasses perched at the end of his nose.

     “Prince Adam,” Maurice said, surprised. “You are up late. Is everything all right?”

     Adam saw Maurice taking in his disheveled appearance, his pale face and the hands that were still twisting about each other in anxiety. He took a deep breath and forced himself upright, walking towards Belle's father. Maybe it was the late hour, or maybe the kindly look on the man's face, but Adam found himself eschewing small talk for truth.

     “I had a nightmare. The hunter-Gaston- had me cornered and shot at me. I...didn't want to stay alone in the West Wing. I thought a book might help.”

     “That's understandable,” Maurice said. “Come, sit. Sometimes company helps.”

     Adam settled into the armchair opposite Maurice's. Despite the week that had passed since the end of the curse, he still felt awkward and shy around Maurice. True, he had been forgiven, on the very morning the curse had broken after Maurice and the priest, Pere Robert, had made their way to the castle to help Belle in any way they could. But Adam still felt guilty for what he had put the man through. He didn't know what to say.

     “It is only to be expected that you'd have bad dreams,” Maurice continued. “I have them, too, and so does Belle. It was quite a traumatic night, that, wasn't it?”

     Adam nodded. He could still feel the prickle of fear across the shoulders that had happened when Gaston came up behind him on the tower, when he had been so certain he was about to die. He could still feel the punch in the gut at the man's words, “Belle sent me”. He shivered. Maurice saw.

     “Here, would you like some tea? Monsieur Cuisinier lent me a kettle.”

     “Yes, please.”

     Maurice stood and busied himself next to the fire. Adam noted with interest that someone had inserted a little hob, where a kettle could heat without being engulfed in flames. Maurice took it up and poured the hot water into a proper mug, popped in a tea strainer, stirred, removed it, added milk, and presented the mug to Adam with a little bow. “I always feel that tea is soothing. Not just the drink itself, but the preparation.”

     Adam smiled. “You ought to get along fine with Mrs. Potts.”

     Maurice chuckled. “Who do you think put the whole set-up here? A clever woman, your housekeeper.”

     Adam ducked his head, smiling a little. “She is, indeed. And kind with it. She...I've always been grateful that she is here.”

     For a time they sat in silence. Adam drank his tea and felt the last of his fear drain away. It was pleasant to sit here with Belle's father, in comfortable quiet. Peaceful. Maurice continued his sketch, the sound of the skritching pencil soothing against the fire's crackle. And Adam felt himself drawn to speak again.

     “Monsieur Maurice, I want to apologize again for my behavior towards you before. I...was a monster.”

     Maurice looked up, surprised. “There is no need to keep apologizing, Prince Adam. I've already forgiven you for that.”

     “But I want to explain,” Adam protested. “Not to excuse myself, of course, there are no excuses, but...I was angry and spontaneous and stupid. And I was going to let you go that day, before Belle came in with a stick.”

     “Were you really?” Maurice looked flummoxed.

     “Yes. After I locked you up, I was so angry at myself for being an idiot, but then Belle came and I was too proud to just send you both away. I'm sorry.”

     Maurice stared. Adam, ashamed, looked down at his hands. He did not blame Maurice one bit for hating him, for trying to get the village to rescue Belle in the first place. It was a marvel why he had forgiven Adam at all.

     “What was it about the roses?” Maurice said at last.

     “They were my mother's. She made that garden in the colonnade and they were the only thing to survive the Enchantress's winter. I forbade anyone else from touching them after...after. And then you just took one and I was so astounded and angry that I reacted without thinking.”

     “Well, I can understand that. When my wife died, I didn't let anyone touch her things. I didn't have much of hers, you understand, and I was terribly possessive of what was left.”

     Adam looked up. “Really?”

     “Yes. In one town, some man tried to take my only portrait of her in return for food and shelter, and I punched him.”

     Adam started to smile. Maurice, seeing, chuckled. “We all do stupid things sometimes. Belle explained how good you were to her. You ought to have seen her defend you from the villagers. She was outraged. Still is, if I know my daughter.”

     “I thought for a moment that she had set them on me,” Adam admitted. “That's what the hunter said.”

     Maurice scoffed at that. “Belle hated Gaston. He always pursued her, never took no for an answer. He manipulated that situation entirely for his own purposes, and had murder in his heart long before he believed in you.”

     “Whenever I close my eyes, I can see him hunting me. He shot me three times before he fell, even after I let him go. I dream of him standing over me, shooting me between the eyes. And the worst part is that in my dream I know I deserve it.”

     “Ah.” And to Adam's amazement, Maurice stood and came to place a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me, Adam. You did not deserve what he did to you. No one deserves to be shot like an animal. Gaston was the true monster here. Even before Belle explained you to me, I felt that. You do not need to blame yourself, or hold yourself responsible for his actions.”

     It was the kindest thing anyone had said to him yet, the sort of thing a father would say to his frightened child. Adam began to understand then what Belle had meant when she had said that everything she was was because of Maurice. He put his hand on top of the older man's.

     “Thank you, Maurice, I...thank you.”

     Maurice squeezed his shoulder again. “You're welcome, Adam. Rest easy, now, son, and do not be too hard on yourself. You're all right.”

     Adam smiled. It struck him for the first time that he had acquired not only a second chance, and the love of his life, but a father. A proper father, who cared. _I can sleep now_.

 

 

 

Author's Note: This idea had been kicking around in my head for weeks. I sort of bent it to the "Leather" prompt by setting it in the library. I hope you all like it! Please let me know. Thanks for reading!

 

 

 


	6. First

 

     It all started, unexpectedly, with Frou-Frou and Chip Potts. Taking advantage of the beautiful summer days that the cursed winter had given way to, the boy had offered to take Madame de Garderobe's and Maestro Cadenza's little dog on walks around the castle gardens. In truth, Chip was fulfilling a dream that he had carefully nurtured during the curse: of one day being able to play fetch with Frou-Frou. He had found the ball, small enough to fit in the dog's mouth, that first week after the curse, when he and Mama had spent a few days down in Villeneuve with Papa. Now they were back at the castle, and Chip and Frou-Frou were out beyond the formal gardens in the little meadow.

     “You have to bring the ball BACK, you silly dog!” Chip explained, prying the ball from Frou-Frou's mouth. Frou-Frou wuffed and jumped in excitement. “Look, I throw it, you fetch it and bring it back. You DON'T get to sit and eat it!”

     He hurled the ball again, and Frou-Frou shot off into the grass after it. This time she brought the ball and set it proudly at Chip's feet. Chip, feeling that she ought to be rewarded for a job well done, fell to his knees and gave her an all-over scratch.

     “Good girl, you are a good girl! Who is my good Frou-Frou dog? Go on, then, fetch!”

     Again he threw the ball, again Frou-Frou shot off after it. The ball bounced down the sandy path towards the hedge. Frou-Frou vanished after it, returning a moment later with the ball between her teeth and Prince Adam at her heels. She wuffed at Chip and carried on past him to gnaw at it in peace.

     “Hey!” Chip said, momentarily forgetting that one was supposed to drop everything and bow when confronted with nobility. “Bring that back!”

     “I don't think she understands the concept of fetch,” Prince Adam remarked. Chip looked up at him; he was grinning.

     “We're learning,” Chip replied. “Sometimes she gets it.”

     “Has she succeeded at all?”

     “Yes, she brought it back once before.” Chip advanced on Frou-Frou and succeeded in wrestling the ball away again. “She's trainable.”

     He had thought that Prince Adam would continue on with his walk, but the man stood looking at the little dog with a small smile. Chip liked it when Prince Adam smiled. He had gone for so long in a perpetual thundercloud that Chip felt it was about time he had something to be happy about. He held out the ball to the Prince.

     “Would you like to throw? You've probably got a stronger arm than me.”

     Prince Adam grinned. “I don't know that you want me to do that; I nearly killed Belle with a snowball.”

     Chip giggled. “I know. Mum said I shouldn't laugh at that, but I did.”

     “So did I.” Prince Adam took the ball, not seeming to mind that it was a bit slimy. “I've never played fetch. Frou-Frou! Go get it!”

     Chip was scandalized, even as he noted that Prince Adam's throw was indeed much farther than his own. “What, _never_? Never _ever_?”

     “Never ever. I was never allowed to have a dog when I was young. Shame, really. I always wanted one.”

     Chip had heard stories of how mean Prince Adam's father had been, but not allowing his son a dog? Cruelty. “I thought all princes had dogs!”

     Prince Adam chuckled. “We had hunters, to track down animals while hunting. I sold them after the old fraud died.”

     Frou-Frou came running back to them then, the ball held proudly in her mouth. Chip bent to take it, praising her mightily. He looked up at Prince Adam, suddenly feeling rather shy. “Would you like to play with us?”

     “You know,” Prince Adam said, “I think I would.”

*

     They returned to the castle an hour or so later, both a little hot and disheveled, Adam carrying his fine jacket over one arm. Frou-Frou had gone into the fountain after the ball at one point, and decided that swimming was more fun than fetch. Consequently, Prince and boy were a bit soaked. Both were laughing.

     “I always wanted a dog,” Adam remarked to Belle, flopping into his chair in the library. “A proper doggy dog, to run and play with and that would sleep at the end of my bed at night.”

     Belle smiled. “Is there any other kind?”

     “Frou-Frou is a lap dog,” Adam said, “And my father had hunters, and you know about sheep dogs well enough. I wanted a friend.”

     “And he wouldn't let you?”

     Adam sighed. “No.”

     Belle reached her feet out and set them in Adam's lap. He took them in one grubby hand and squeezed gently. “I wanted a dog, too, but we travelled too much to make having one sensible. I was terribly afraid of the dark as a child and I always felt a dog would have helped.”

     “Were you really? Me, too. Bloody terrified. Still don't like the dark much, if I'm honest.”

     They smiled a little over this mutual fear, and Adam squeezed Belle's foot again. “What a pair we are.”

     “Yes,” Belle sighed. “Two lonely bookworms, outcast and dogless.”

     “How tragic. What a miracle we found each other.”

     Belle smiled; Adam grinned back. “Indeed.”

 

*

     Belle sent a message to Pere Robert the next morning. His reply came by a few days later, and after lunch, Belle bundled a protesting Adam into the carriage.

     “But why won't you tell me where we're going?”

     “Because the occasional surprise is good for you, Adam de Courcy.”

     “I don't like surprises! Nasty, uncomfortable things-”

     “-That make you late for dinner? I think you'll find that falls under the definition of 'adventure', my love.”

     “Same thing,” grumbled Adam, trying not to grin. “In my experience, anyway.”

     “Really? The first adventure I had included a singing, dancing dinner service. It was delicious.”

     Adam laughed. “I hope Lumiere actually let you eat.”

     “He did; after the show was over.”

     “Small mercies.”

     They both laughed. Belle settled into the seat opposite Adam and spread her skirts, looking prim. “If you put you mind to it, _mon prince_ , I'm sure you'll be able to figure out what we are doing.”

     Adam smirked at her. “I think we are driving to Villeneuve, which I admit surprises me. I thought you were never going to go back.”

     “Not _never_ , just not for a long time,” Belle replied. She still couldn't imagine returning to the village that had tried to put her father into an asylum and kill the friends she loved.

     “It's been three weeks, my dear.”

     “We are not going to Villeneuve proper. Trust me.”

     Adam stared out the open window at the countryside around them as they drove. How beautiful it all was. He had always felt his lands were the most beautiful in France, no matter what his cousins in Provence said about theirs. Rolling hills and sprawling forests, rich soil that was good for farming. The first thing he had done after they had all stopped celebrating was lower the taxes his people had suffered under before the curse. Now they would prosper again.

     The driver took them around Villeneuve, to a small farm at the village's outskirts. The farmer and his family were evidently expecting them; they were all lined up in the farmyard, wearing their best, as Belle and Adam left the carriage.

     “Good day, Monsieur Dejeuner,” Belle said, smiling at the farmer. “I hope we find you well?”

     “Bonjour, Belle,” the handsome farmer said. “We are very well, thank you. Welcome, my prince.”

     Adam bowed and smiled. “Thank you, monsieur.”

     “If you'll follow me, the...surprise is just this way.”  
     So the farmer was in on it, too. Adam sent Belle a suspicious look as they followed the farmer through his yard to the barn. His suspicion grew as they approached a stall from which whimpers and squeaks emanated. Monsieur Dejeuner opened the stall door and stood aside for Belle and Adam to pass. The reason for their visit presented itself to Adam, and he gasped, and laughed.

     A black and white sheepdog sat on the straw, surrounded by a litter of roly-poly puppies. They were up and tumbling, playing together.

     “I asked Pere Robert if any of the farmers had puppies,” Belle explained.

     “Most of them have been claimed by surrounding farmers,” Monsieur Dejeuner said, “But these three are still looking for a good home. They're just about old enough to leave their mother, so you can take your pick, your grace.”

     Adam felt his face split into a grin. He dropped to his knees among the puppies, holding his hands out for them to sniff. They were darling little creatures, all floppy ears and tiny wet noses. The three that were still looking for a home were adorable, two males and a female. One of the males climbed up Adam's leg, sniffing at him, and Adam picked him up. The puppy looked at him with limpid eyes and licked Adam's nose.

     “I think this is the one,” Adam said, smiling around at Belle and Monsieur Dejeuner. “Did you say he is ready to come home with us?”

     “Yes, sire, if you are willing to take him today,” the farmer said.

     “Thank you,” Adam said. “We'll take him.”

     Later, after they had settled on a price and returned to the castle, Adam carried the puppy down to the kitchen to be presented to the rest of the household. Chip went into paroxysms of joy over him, and the rest of the staff abandoned their duties to feed tidbits to the puppy and play with it. At last, full of chicken and comfortable, the puppy went to sleep in Adam's arms.

     “What are you going to name him?” Chip asked.

     Adam thought about it. “I'm not sure. What do you think?”

     Chip considered. “He needs a proper name, not a silly one. A manly name.”

     Adam grinned. “Manly, eh? I'll have to give it some thought.”

     Belle leaned over his shoulders to rub the dog's silky ears. “He looks to me like a Matthieu.”

     Adam looked down at his puppy. He could imagine his noble cousins scoffing at the thought of him owning a humble black and white collie dog, and he did not care. “Matthieu it is, then.” He looked up at Belle, hoping she could read the gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you, Belle.”

     That night, when Adam went to bed, it was with his dog curled up on the blanket beside him. “We'll have to find you a new bed when Belle joins me, my friend,” Adam told him. “But for now you are welcome.”

     Matthieu wuffed and licked Adam's hand, and Adam blew out the candle and settled down. The night would be less frightening now.

 

 

 

Author's Note: I tried for fluff and banter this chapter! I hope you all like it. Please comment and let me know, for I am a Needy Writer Girl.

And yes, Matthieu is a reference to that one show that Dan Stevens was in. Which I still haven't seen. :-)

 


	7. Bright

 

     Maurice marvels at the change in the castle, so different than it was when he first approached it on a cold and snowy June night. Then it had been dark, rimed with ice, and crumbling. An austere, alarming building, oddly beautiful, slowly decaying. Now it is bright, clean and new in the sun, its yellow stone radiant, not a single glass windowpane out of place. Summer sunlight bathes it. On the whole, Maurice likes the castle much better than he did when he was first an unwitting guest, then a prisoner. And he likes its denizens even better.

     Perhaps it helps that he saw the curse break, the ice and decay giving way to life. Père Robert, one of the only able bodied adults left in the village after the mob left it, had harnessed his pony and trap and driven Maurice after Belle.

     “This village,” the priest grumbled. “Honestly, sometimes, God forgive me, I wonder if it is even worth serving.”

     “God values honesty, father,” Maurice replied. He plucked at the yellow gown that Belle had abandoned as she rode off. He had picked it up almost without thinking. “I hope Belle is all right, because after this, we are leaving.”

     Belle was all right; her words, _he's been cursed somehow_ , rang in Maurice's ears as he and the priest watched summer return to the castle and whisk away the winter snow from the palatial gardens. The two men exchanged a bewildered glance and Père Robert had urged the pony to go faster. They arrived at the castle doors to find Belle standing amid a group of people, surrounded by villagers. What a circus it was, Maurice thought, pushing his way through the crowd, all of them hugging and kissing each other like they hadn't stormed off an hour ago with murder in their hearts.

     “Belle!”

     “Papa!”

     His daughter let go of the hand of a smiling young man and leaped into his arms. Maurice hugged her tight, laughing with relief.

     “You're all right! What happened?”

     “I don't rightly know,” Belle confessed, shoving her hands through her hair. She looked awfully disheveled, Maurice thought, and her face was tear-stained and happier than Maurice had ever seen it. “I broke the curse, Papa! By accident, almost.”

     “Where is the Beast?” Maurice asked, looking around at the group of people surrounding them.

     Belle giggled, a touch hysterically, and turned t hold a hand out. “Here he is.”

     Maurice took in the young man with the shining gold hair and blue eyes. He was as disheveled as Belle, wearing nothing but a loose shirt and blue breeches, his feet and legs bare. He looked at Maurice shyly, almost fearfully, and bowed from the waist.

     “Monsieur Maurice, I must beg for forgiveness,” he said. “The way I treated you-and Belle, too-was despicable. I am truly sorry.”

     Maurice stared. “ _You_ are the Beast! But- _how?_ What _happened_ here?”

     It took them sometime to explain the curse to him, for the entire household kept breaking into the narrative to explain how the Prince had been a contemptible little toerag to an enchantress (“ _Cogsworth_!” “It's all right, he's right, I _was_!”) and got himself cursed for it.

     “He had to learn to love-”

     “-and be loved in return-”

     “And then Gaston shot him three times-”

     “He _shot you_? Adam!”

     “-And then he died in my arms-”

     “ _You died_?”

     “Only then I told him I loved him and he came back-”

     “You were _shot three times_ and _you died_?”

     It was an awful lot to take in, and Maurice thinks he has done considerably well with it, especially since the explanation had been abandoned on the staff's realization of what had happened that night to their master. The prince had started to shake as the shock set in, and Maurice had united with the staff to haul the young couple inside and administer to them with blankets and brandy and breakfast. He had not missed Belle's statement, _I told him I loved him and he came back_ , but it wasn't until later that he had been able to process it.

     Love. Such a powerful emotion, and yet so simple, even mysterious. Maurice is surprised by how quickly it has blossomed between Belle and this Prince Adam, but only a little. Belle is her mother's daughter. If she has decided to love, she will love with her whole heart and soul, until the day she dies. And he is not surprised by Adam's love, either. Of course he would love Belle; why shouldn't he? Despite their bad beginning, Maurice has seen that Adam is a good man, and that he values Belle as an equal, something no man, and certainly not Gaston, has ever done before. And it is true love, Maurice reflects as he walks through a shining, immaculate castle. Only true love could break the curse, Mrs. Potts and Lumiere has explained to him. Maurice knew true love once, knows how powerful it is. Walking through the castle now, early in the morning the next day, Maurice sees the evidence of his daughter's love in every winking crystal filament, every miraculously repaired statue and window. His daughter's love, and Adam's.

     Yes, he thinks, their future will be bright, and full of joy. And they will weather their troubles together, never wavering. It is the dawn of a new life, and he could not be more proud.

 

 

 

Author's Note: Wow, over a thousand hits on this little series! Do you guys like it, or something? :-) I hope you enjoy this chapter (it's a little late and I sort of dashed it off). Please let me know and make my little author's heart sing!


	8. Hands

 

     There are a great many paintings in the castle, Maurice notices during his first week there. This is to be expected, of course; the aristocracy will insist on having their portraits regularly painted. (He has never criticized this; before they settled in Villeneuve for good, Maurice had made his money traveling to France's great cities to paint portraits.) The Chateau de Courcy, as Cogsworth has told him it is called, is no different from any great country palace in that respect. This castle has been in the same family for generations-Maurice can tell that just by looking at the paintings that line one of the upstairs galleries. Prince Adam was something of a collector, too, according once again to Cogsworth. There is evidence of that, as well; Maurice comes across a handful of the Dutch grand masters and a trio of pictures by an excellent English portraitist.

     He makes his way up to the West Wing, sketchbook in hand. The days continue to be sunny and warm; through a window, Maurice can see Belle and Adam sitting in the colonnade, surrounded by the white roses that started this adventure; beyond them, Lumiere and Plumette kiss by a fountain. Maurice smiles and continues to seek out paintings.

     He had seen for himself the mess the castle had been in before the curse was lifted, and it gives him pleasure how to see it clean and whole. Adam has given him the run of the place- “If you come to a rather messy chamber with a glassed-in balcony, that's my room”- and Maurice is content to wander and explore his new home.

     It is in the West Wing that he notices, for the first time, something odd. There are paintings here, even portraits, but they have been ripped to shreds. Maurice pauses, examining them. One is of a couple, obviously on their wedding day. The woman wears cloth of gold and a serene smile-she is beautiful, her eyes kind. In contrast, her husband's features have been ripped to shreds, his face obliterated. Another portrait, of the same man on horseback, has been similarly shredded. Maurice continues on, discomfited. There is a family picture of the same couple with a baby. The woman is left alone, smiling down at her child, while the man is once again obliterated. And so it continues. There are a handful of other portraits that include the man, several of father and son together, in which both figures have been torn to shreds. By the time he reaches Adam's rooms and sees the ruined family portrait over the desk, Maurice is certain. Someone hated this man, and Maurice suspects he knows who.

     Hearing a door opening behind him and assuming it is Cogsworth, Maurice says over his shoulder, “Prince Adam didn't love his father over much, did he?”

     “No, I hated the old bastard. I would've danced in the streets when he died, had etiquette allowed it.”

     Maurice turns, embarrassed, to see Adam loping gracefully across the room towards him. There is a white rose in his buttonhole and his voice is amiable, matter-of-fact. The prince comes to stand next to Maurice, and looks at the ruined painting before him.

     “He scared me to death, my father, and I know he disliked my mother. After she died, he turned into a tyrant. He beat me a few times, and after I fought back, did his absolute damnedest to remove everything and everyone I loved from my life. If I didn't lie, cheat, drink and debauch, he punished me. After a while, it was just easier to do what he wanted.” Adam sighs. “After the Enchantress cursed me, I went on a bit of a spree and destroyed everything in my way. I only kept the family portraits because my mother is in them. I'm surprised that they weren't repaired when Belle broke the curse-everything else was.”

     “Perhaps Agathe was disinclined to force you to see your tormentor,” Maurice replies. His heart goes out to the young man beside him.

     “You think she cares? Why would she?”

     “She gave you a second chance, didn't she?”

     Adam considers it. “I suppose so. Yes.”

     Maurice puts his hand on Adam's shoulder and squeezes. Every day that goes by he learns more about the prince's life, and every day he grows to love the younger man better.

     “I remember you had terrible claws,” he says lightly. “You certainly managed to rip straight through the canvas.”

     “Both hands,” Adam agrees, lifting his hands to mime the gesture. “It's a shame my father never let my mother be painted by herself. Then I wouldn't have to have him in my chamber.”

     Maurice considers the painting again. It's true, he hasn't come across a solo portrait of the dead princess. “What was her name?”

     “Maria-Eleanor. Lovely, isn't it? She was English. She had a heart as wide as an ocean.” Adam smiles wistfully. “She was so good. Father hated her for it. I was ten when she died.”

     “I'm sorry.”

     They stand in silence for a few moments, looking up at the ruined portrait. Maurice takes up his sketchbook and begins to draw. Adam looks down at the paper and watches as Maurice brings Maria-Eleanor's face to life, an exact copy of the woman on the canvas.

     “He was a good artist, whoever did this painting, but he makes her flat,” Maurice says. “She should be more vibrant.”

     Adam stares, entranced, at the growing picture. At last, Maurice hands him the sketchbook and asks what he thinks. Adam cannot speak. His mother smiles out at him.

     “If I can have some canvas, I have my paints with me,” Maurice says, seeing the tears in the young man's eyes. “I can make you a picture of her, without your father, to replace this one.”

     “Would you? I would be,” Adam's voice wavers. “I would be so grateful if you did.”

     Maurice squeezes his shoulder again. “Of course, Adam. Leave it to me.”

     A week later, the picture is ready. Princess Maria-Eleanor de Courcy stands beside a table, resting her hand on a pile of books, beside a vase of white and pink roses. White for peace. Pink for eternity. Her blue eyes shine down at the people below, as kind and merry as Adam remembers. He looks up at her, smiling.

     “She used to sing this lullaby. 'Not until my whole life is done, could I ever leave you.'” Adam smiles at Belle as she puts her arm through his. Maurice nods.

     “The ones we love never truly leave us, Adam. They live on inside our hearts, and always will,” he says. “And then there is this, for you both.”

     He hands them a smaller portrait, wrapped in lace. Belle and Adam unwrap it and gasp in unison: they are captured in oils, sitting hand in hand in the library, reading together. They look at Maurice, delighted. He chuckles.

     “Easy enough to copy from a sketch,” he says. “Try not to destroy this one, eh?”

     They laugh and embrace him. Maria-Eleanor, captured in oils, smiles down on the little family. _Love lives on and always will_.

 

 

 

Author's Note: And I'm all caught up! I do like writing Maurice and Adam together. I hope you all like this chapter. As ever, please comment and let me know. 

 

 


	9. Smile

 

     Adam looks at his face in the shards of his bedroom mirror. Hairy, flat, hideous. He bares his teeth in a smile. _Ugh_. No wonder the staff flinched from him. If he stops to think about it, it is a small wonder that the conversation with his prisoner went so poorly: he was already feeling attacked and set upon. (How must she feel?)

     Adam has forgotten what it is to smile. He can't remember the last time he was happy. He thinks it was before the curse-it certainly wouldn't be after-but he can't put his fingers on _when_. Maybe he has never been happy.

     No, he has it: it was when his father died. A heart attack in the gardens while out walking; they had brought him back to the castle on a stretcher, but it was already too late. Adam remembers rushing into the prince's bed chamber, remembers seeing his father stretched out on the bed. The staff around him had been pale and strained, but none of them had wept. Looking at the Prince de Courcy, the frown between his eyes firmly in place even in death, Adam had felt such a rush of relief and joy that he had nearly burst out laughing. Nearly. He had had enough etiquette drummed into him to not show a visible reaction. Through his relief he had felt a needle of guilt: what kind of a person feels joy at their father's death?

     Adam sighs. Why try to smile? The girl already hates him. The curse will never be broken. Why bother trying?

*

     Belle has many facial expressions. In short order Adam has learned fear, outrage, terror, disgust, heartbreak, amusement, bewilderment, astonishment, and wondering joy. How can one face hold so much emotion? He almost asks Lumiere, but stops himself. He can already hear his maitre d's answer. _Because you wore a permanent sneer and because most of the people surrounding you were sycophantic swine, mon prince_.

     Adam's father had smiled. He had been considered a handsome man, and nothing pleased him more than having his own way. When Adam had read Hamlet for the first time and come across the line _One may smile and smile, and be a villain_ , he had felt a real kinship with the beleaguered prince. That was his father. That was him.

     Belle's smiles are natural, genuine. Adam wants to make her smile more. He wants to show her that she makes him happy, but he remembers the staff flinching away from him and keeps his lips closed. Fangs do not a pleasant visage make. But then he mentions to Belle that he had loved horses, once, and she brings him to meet Philippe. The horse shies away from Adam at first, until Belle soothes him and sets Adam's hand on his neck. Then they are friends. The girl smiles at him, a soft upturning of the lips, a brightening of the eyes, and leaves him. Adam strokes the horse, wuffles back at it, and wonders on this. She smiles with her eyes. Maybe...

     And then a snowball hits his shoulder, and Belle laughs. Adam heaves one back at her, misjudging its size in his hands-it had seemed small until he saw it explode all over her face. She sits up, sputtering and laughing, scarlet, and Adam cannot keep the mirth inside. Laughter bubbles out of him to see Belle with snow in her hair. And Belle, about to feign outrage, pauses and looks at him, surprised and happy.

     “Hey-you're smiling!”

     Adam touches his lips, shyly, wonder filling him. He is smiling, and she is not afraid.

 

 

Author's Note: Sorry about the tardiness! I've got a week before I go abroad, and I've got a ton to do, but I am trying to keep up as best I can. Here is the smile prompt. I hope you all like it! As ever, please let me know what you think. And thank you for all of the comments and kudos! I really appreciate it. 

 


	10. Sand

 

     Belle lies spread-eagled on the marble floor of the front hall, in the shade of one of the many columns. She has removed her shoes and stockings and fichu, and hitched her skirts up to her knees. The marble is cool against her skin. She hopes that if she lay there long enough, it will seep through her skirts and bodice and cool her blazing body.

     The August heatwave holds the castle in its grip. Normally Belle doesn't mind heat, but this is ridiculous. The air is thick and juicy, the sun beating down on them like Villeneuve and its environs have personally offended it. (As, Belle reflects with some smugness, it probably had.) Belle is more pleased than ever that she and Adam have agreed on a September wedding; hopefully by the end of the month the worst of the heat would have passed. The castle rests in lazy somnolence around her. Monsieur Cuisinier has agreed with Belle's assessment that cold dinners would be for the best during the heat, and most of the staff are out lounging in the gardens, or napping through the worst of the afternoon heat. Adam and Chip have taken the puppy, Matthieu, out into the grounds. Belle suspects that that really meant “swimming in the pond”, and grins to herself. Buying Adam that puppy had been a stroke of genius. He is like a little boy, playing with it all day, and he doesn't wake up screaming in the night as often anymore.

     “Of course I don't!” he had said when Belle pointed this out. “I've got you and a dog in my bed. Nightmares don't stand a chance.”

     Belle is still lying on the floor when Chip and Adam return from their walk. As she suspected, all three of them were soaked. Matthieu runs over and begins to lick her face, wondering why his mistress is all spread out on the floor, and Belle sits up laughing.

     “Did you three enjoy yourselves?”

     Chip bounces across the hall to her. “I fell in the pond!”

     “Did you?”

     “And Prince Adam had to fish me out!” Chip looks immensely proud of himself for being saved. Adam is laughing.

     “And then Matthieu had to go for a swim, too,” he said and settled down on the floor beside them both. “Are you all right?”

     “I'm hot,” Belle says plaintively. “I was just pretending to be somewhere with an ocean to swim in.”

     “You can swim in the pond,” Chip points out. “Or in the fountain.”

     “I don't like ponds,” Belle says. “I don't like the way the weeds in the bottom grab at your feet and wrap around your legs. I always feel like they're going to pull me down to a watery grave.” She tickles Chip and he giggles.

     Adam rubs Matthieu's back and contemplates. “I have cousins near Nice who live on the coast. Beaches for miles. There are lots of villages along them, of course, but I remember that there are a few sheltered coves.”

     Belle and Chip sigh in unison. “Imagine it,” Belle says wistfully. “Swimming in the sea, lying on the sand, eating a picnic lunch...”

     “How far away is Nice?” Chip asks.

     “Days and days,” Belle replies. “In a hot carriage along miles of dusty roads.”

     Adam looks at them both, smirking, waiting for them to catch on. When they don't, he sighs and stands up. “Come on, you two. Chip, go ask Monsieur Cuisinier for a lunch hamper, and bring it to the library. Tell your mother that you'll be off with us for the afternoon. Belle, find a couple of blankets and some towels. And both of you, find some old clothes to swim in.”

     “What are we doing?”

     “You'll see,” Adam says, grinning. “Meet me in the library in half an hour.”

     Chip and Belle stare at him for a moment. Then, “Oh!” says Belle, and they are off.

     When the half an hour is up, Belle is in the library, waiting for the rest of her family. Chip comes running in with the lunch hamper, and shortly thereafter Adam strides through the door, dressed in a different suit and with Maurice and Matthieu in tow. He fetches down the Atlas and sets it on the table.

      “Are we ready? Everyone, lay your hands on the Atlas,” he instructs.

     They do as he says, and a moment later, in a rush of golden magic, they are standing on a deserted stretch of beach. The sun blazes down, but it isn't as hot here as it was at the castle, and the ocean looks cool and inviting.

     “Voila! The coast of France,” Adam says, grinning all over his face.

     “Extraordinary,” says Maurice.

     “It's beautiful,” says Belle.

     “Last one in's a fish!” screams Chip, and boy and dog are off, shrieking with laughter.

     Leaving their blankets and lunch on the shore, the castle denizens rush into the water. Belle is glad that she brought her bloomers and one of Adam's shirts to swim in. The menfolk simply strip to their breeches. The water is cool; Belle feels as through her skin lets off steam as she sinks into it. Chip is a good swimmer for someone who only just learned how to that summer, and Adam teaches them all to ride the waves to shore and to duck under them when they are too fearsome to ride. At last, soaked, sandy, and happy, Belle, Maurice, Adam, Chip and Matthieu retire to the shore to eat their picnic lunch and lounge on the sand.

     “Did you come down here often, Adam?” Maurice asks, setting aside his sandwich in favor of his sketchbook and pencil.

     “Only a handful of times,” Adam replies. “Mostly as a boy, before my mother died. She approved of me sneaking out to swim with the locals. My father did not, so after she died, we stopped visiting.”

     “I don't think I like your father,” Chip says, helping himself to a second piece of cake. “He doesn't sound very nice.”

     Adam starts to laugh. “He wasn't. But then, neither was I.”

     “Nah,” Chip says, with the brutal honesty of the very young, “You were all right after Belle showed up and you stopped being all shouty. You're quite a lot of fun, actually.”

     Adam blushes. “Yes, well.”

     Belle nudges him, smiling. “I think you've always been fun. You just had to hide it for so long that you forgot that it was there.”

     “And clever,” Maurice adds. “Who would have thought to use a magic book to escape nearly six hundred miles to the seaside?”

     Later, after another long swim in the sea, they return to the castle. Damp, sandy, hungry, and happy, they make their way down to the dining room, where a cold buffet waits. Mrs. Potts takes Chip off for a bath, the others soon drifting off to their own baths. The heatwave won't break for another two weeks, but Belle feels calmer about it now.

     “That was a good idea, Adam,” she says as they lie in their stripped down bed that night.

     “Thank you,” Adam says. “I never imagined that the Atlas would ever be of any real use.”

     Belle raises herself onto an elbow. “I never imagined that you would know the perfect coastal getaway.”

     “I am full of surprises,” Adam says primly.

     Belle laughs. “Somehow I don't doubt that. Adam?”

     “Belle?”

     “Put the dog out and come and kiss me.”

     Adam sits up with alacrity. “All right.”

     Matthieu sleeps in Chip's room that night.

 

 

 

Author's Note: And here is today's prompt! I'm catching up. I hope you like this one; it is entirely fluffy. And I leave it to you whether or not Belle and Adam are being innocent in bed, or whether they are indulging in sexy fun times. ;-) Please let me know what you think!


	11. Rejection

 

The Prince de Courcy is drunk. Adam doesn't know why he is surprised; the wines at Versailles are the best in the country, and they flowed freely during the night's festivities. It is, or was by this hour, the young King's birthday, and the dancing and gambling had gone on until dawn. His father had retired sometime after midnight, but Adam had stayed on with the young court, playing an elaborate and filthy game of hide and seek with the young ladies brought down from Paris to fill the galleries and service the aristocracy. Adam is tired but buoyant, his dragonfly-green and gold suit rumpled and his elaborate make-up smeared across his face. But he had made that nymph scream his name into the night, and he knows harlots well enough by now to know when they are pretending. And she was not pretending. Adam smirks to himself as he enters the de Courcy apartments. Yes, it was a good night. All he wants for is a bath and his bed, the better to enjoy his victory in, but all thoughts of pleasure evaporate as he stumbles over his father's outstretched leg.

“Ah, if it isn't my foppish heir,” the Prince de Courcy says as Adam rights himself. “Don't glare at me, boy; you should have used your eyes. Well? What do you have to say?”

“You're drunk,” Adam sneers. “And you tripped me. I will not apologize to you.”

The Prince raises his stick to thrash at Adam; the young man steps out of its range. It has been several years since his father last beat him; the Prince's preferred weapons of abuse now are words.

“You owe me everything,” the Prince slurs now. “Everything.”

“Monsieur should go to bed,” Adam says. “Or he will have a terrible headache in the morning.”

“Be quiet, boy! Don't prattle at me like an old woman. But you are an old woman, aren't you? With your soft hands and your weak heart. Just like your mother.”

Adam's chest tightens again; he knows he should leave the room, but he cannot. “My mother has nothing to do with this.”

The Prince de Courcy smacks again at Adam's shins with his stick. “Your mother. Horrible woman. A great beauty, they said she was. A filthy rich English heiress, niece of the king. Soft, weak, horrible. Just like her son.”

Adam forces himself to breathe in. “Father. Do I not make you even the least bit proud? The King himself delights in my company; does that mean nothing to you?”

The Prince laughs, a mean little snicker. “He doesn't know you like I do. You're a good actor, Adam, but you cannot fool me. I see your fear, your weakness. I know you are nothing.”

Adam swallows, his good mood long gone. “Nothing, your grace?”

“Nothing. Weak,” the Prince laughs. “Loves books, loves dogs. Pathetic. Just like your mother.”

“I'm never going to be good enough for you, am I?”

The Prince de Courcy pauses, staring at his son. Eighteen years old, tall, handsome, popular. Still far too kind to those beneath him, though he is learning. Doesn't like hunting, though de Courcy approves of his penchant for pretty women. A disappointment, though, just like Maria-Eleanor.   
“It shames me,” he says at last, “that I must call you my son.”

Adam goes white under his make-up. “You do not hold even the least bit of love for me, Father?”

“You must earn my love, Adam, and you hardly seem to try. The way you are now, no one will love you, least of all me.”

Adam will not let his father see him cry. “I am sorry to disappoint you, your grace,” he says, and stalks from the room.

Years later he will hate himself for not realizing in that moment that he will never be good enough. He will hate himself for trying harder than ever to please the old fraud. But Adam is young, and still impressionable, and he desperately wants his father to love him. _I'll show him. I will. I will be good enough for him_.

It will lead to his downfall, and his redemption.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note: The young king referenced here is Louis XV, who came to the throne at the age of five, ruling under a regent until 1723, when he was declared an adult at age 13. This story takes place about ten years later. Louis XV had a well-documented love of pretty young things and Versailles under his rule was considered the most corrupt and debauched court in Europe. 

And thanks again for all of your comments and kudos! I'm a little surprised at how well-read this fic is. When I woke up this morning it had more than two hundred hits than it did last night! Thanks again for reading. :-)


	12. Dreams

 

     Adam has not allowed himself to dream in many years, not since his mother died and he succumbed to the fate of all French princes. His life has been planned since he was born. Grow up, learn, spend most of the year at Versailles, try to get the King's ear, marry, beget an heir, grow old, die. There is no place in that agenda for dreams and ambitions, unless they are hedonistic or political, and so Adam does not dream.

     (In his secret heart of hearts, locked away where he can barely acknowledge it, Adam wants everything to be different.)

     Belle is different, he learns that quickly enough. Belle, who burst into his castle with a stick in one hand and thoroughly upset his routine. Belle, a villager who reads books and recites Shakespeare and absolutely refuses to take any guff from him. Belle, who from the moment she burned his old tattered shroud in his bedroom fire has reigned over Adam and the castle with a kind of gentle tyrany, cleaning and sorting and bringing life and purpose back to them all. She confuses and fascinates Adam in equal parts.

     “Papa and I traveled through France a great deal before we settled in Villeneuve,” she tells him the morning he gives her the library. “I tried to enroll at the school there, but the headmaster wouldn't let me.”

     “Why ever not?”

     “He doesn't think it's right for a woman to read. She starts getting ideas, and thinking...” Belle shrugs. “My father taught me to read and none of them can take it from me. They react badly if I try to teach others, though. The other day they threw my laundry in the dirt.”

     Adam is shocked. The girls he grew up with were taught nearly as much as the boys. He wonders if this is a peasant issue, and finds that it irritates him that he does not know.

     “For _reading_?”

     Belle shrugs. “For being different, I guess. For wanting more than what they have to offer me.”

     Adam struggles with himself; lets her climb the ladder and examine another shelf of books before he asks, “What do you want?”

     She looks at him with a raised eyebrow. Adam almost regrets asking; she is technically his prisoner, after all. He took her dreams from her when he condemned her to her cell. He should leave her now, before he ruins this truce they seem to have come to since entering the library.

     But then Belle speaks. “Books. Adventure. To be treated as an equal, not someone's little woman. To be loved for who I am and not what people expect me to be. To be taken seriously and not looked down upon.”

     Adam cannot imagine anyone treating Belle as a little woman, not since she forced him into bed and out of his clothes after the wolf attack last night. She had quite literally ripped the shirt off of his body-not exactly difficult, considering its advanced state of wear. And she had done it all while castigating him. Books, well, she has the library now.

     “What about you?” Belle asks, interrupting his thoughts.

     “What?”

     “What do you want after the curse is broken?”

     Adam doesn't know what to say. He wants everything, and nothing. He wants the curse to break. He wants to be human again. He wants the staff to be free. After that? Nothing. He has never allowed himself to think that the curse will break. (It does not escape him that Belle seems to think it will, though of course she doesn't know how to end it.)

     He is quiet for so long that Belle speaks again. “I'm sorry; that question was awfully personal.”

     “It's all right,” Adam hurries to assure her. “I...I think right now what I want most is lunch.”

     It is a non-answer, but Belle takes it. They walk down to the dining room in amiable silence and read books while they eat.

     But her question, _what do you want after the curse is broken_ , haunts Adam. He thinks about it constantly. What does he _want_? If he could be human again, if he could emerge from this terrible half-life and be in the world again, what would he want? Adam wishes that he had someone to talk to about this, someone who could understand and advise. He settles for Philippe, as he walks the horse through the gardens. At least he is a good listener.

     “She wants to know my dreams,” Adam tells the horse. “How could I tell her that I don't have any? She wouldn't understand!”

     He imagines Philippe's response. _Well, if you were free and human, what would you do?_

     “I would lower the taxes and make sure that the people in my lands prosper. I would build a school for girls like Belle. I would...I would be kind to people, good. Like my mother. She always cared for the peasants.”

 _So you would do your duty as prince_ , he imagines the horse saying sarcastically.

     “Well, yes, and I would do it well. I don't know, Philippe, I had a secretary and a notary who oversaw everything to do with my lands, before. They just brought me papers to sign. I don't know the first thing about governance.”

 _Then you should learn_. The voice in his head is Belle's. Adam sighs. He knows she is right. But then he shakes himself. It is useless to learn, because the curse will never be broken. Belle is the only woman to come across the castle in all the years since the curse began, and she will never love him, no matter what Lumiere says. He has ruined his chances with her, even if they do seem to be getting along better.

     “I hate everybody,” he announces to the horse ambling beside him.

 _What did everybody do to you?_ The horse quips back, and Adam laughs in spite of himself. Maybe he _is_ making jokes now.

     What was it that Belle had said was one of her dreams? To be loved for who she was and not what people expected her to be.

     “I suppose I know what she means,” Adam says to Philippe. “I don't know who I am anymore, Philippe.”

     He is a beast. A creature. A monster with a terrible temper, who has lived so long filled with hurt and anger that he doesn't know how to behave around people. If Adam is honest with himself, he knows exactly what Belle means. That old bastard the Prince de Courcy never let Adam be himself. He had never been satisfied with his son, not once. Mrs. Potts was right. He had twisted Adam up to be just like him.

     “He hated me, you know,” Adam says aloud. “He hated everything about me. If I was kind to a servant, he punished me. If I liked something he didn't, he made sure it was removed from the castle. He never let me be me, and I hate him for that.”

 _You have many issues, my friend_. Adam laughs again, a bitter huff. Indeed.

     Later, in the library, Adam listens to Belle reading aloud from Cavendish's _The Blazing World_. Adam has read it before and listens with one ear. _This is nice._ He has not had a companion like this in many years, not since his last tutor was dismissed. It is comfortable to sit here and listen to Belle read, tea and buttered toast at hand. This is something he could get used to. Home, love, family. He does not know what it is to love, and he has never had a family, not really, but Adam thinks that if he did, it would look something like this. _What if_ _ **this**_ _was my life, and not how it was before?_ He sighs, wistful. It will never be, it cannot happen, and yet...

     Belle puts the book down. “Are you all right? You keep sighing.”

     Adam straights. “I'm sorry, I...my thoughts were wandering.”

     “Penny for them?”

     Adam blinks. Hesitates. Then, in a rush, “Do you think that dreams can change? Can one want something for so long, and then decide it isn't worth it?”

     Belle knits her brows together, really considering the question. “I believe our dreams grow and change with us. What we want as children may not be what we want as adults. Why?”

     Adam shrugs. “It's not important.”

     Belle studies him, but Adam does not speak again. She goes back to reading aloud.

     (In his secret heart of hearts, locked away where he can barely acknowledge it, Adam wants a second chance, to make things right and be happy.)

 

 

Author's Note: This one rather got away from me. It's not my best; it seems rather unwieldy and awkward. That could be because I'm writing it in the middle of the night, but either way, I do apologize. I'm going to try for some fluff in the next chapter, which will hopefully be written and posted tomorrow. I'm a bit behind. And as always, please let me know what you think in the comments!

 


	13. Dessert

 

     Three days. That's how long it has taken Belle to make herself at home in the enchanted castle. Three days, if you count the day she spent in the tower cell. She wakes early on the morning of the third day in a bed bigger and far grander than anything she has ever slept in before and lies still, listening to Madame de Garderobe's quiet snore. Yesterday the Beast had gifted her the library. _If you like it that much, it's yours_. What a present. It blows Belle's mind almost more than the library itself does. She rolls over and slides out of bed, fetching her clothes from where Madame has laid them on the alcove sofa. She has a red skirt and cloak today, a new blouse and a new flowered bodice. Madame's workmanship is finer than Belle is used to, but they were at least able to agree on the simplicity of the design, once Madame had stopped to listen to Belle's wishes. She dresses quickly, washes her face and hands, cleans her teeth and ties up her hair, and slips out of the East Wing bedroom.

     The castle is growing more familiar to her now. There isn't much for the servants to do and they mainly stay in the kitchen or the front hall. The Beast seems to spend most of his time in his quarters or out walking the grounds. Belle is becoming more intrigued by him than ever. It's obvious he is under a curse, and that much of his anger stems from that. What does she know about him? That he was a man once, that his father twisted him up, in Mrs. Potts's words, that he loves to read and doesn't like _Romeo and Juliet_ at all. Belle grins a little at that. _Typical man_ , she finds herself thinking, and pauses. _Is_ it typical? Papa and Père Robert both like Shakespeare, but no one else in the village does. No one else even knows who he is. At least the Beast had read it before he made his opinion.

     He has softened towards her since seeing her reaction to his library. Belle stops dead in her tracks as the thought occurs to her. _He didn't think I would care about the books. He was waiting for me to be contemptuous_.

     Could it be that he was as much of a lonely bookworm as she herself was?

     The library is empty at this hour, its fires reduced to glowing embers. It smells of leather and paper and ink, a wonderful smell that Belle wishes she could bottle and wear. This room has never been abandoned, she realizes. It is one of the few rooms in the castle that still seems lived in. Belle wanders, exploring. She runs her fingers over colorful bindings, drifts up and down the aisles and climbs into the galleries. She examines the paintings on the walls and ceilings. No shredded portraits here, but frescoes of heavenly bodies. For all its size and grandeur, this library is a comfortable place.

     The door creaks open. Belle leans over the balustrade to see Mrs. Potts trundling into the room on her cart. The teapot rests on a tray laden with milk and biscuits.

     “Good morning, dearie,” Mrs. Potts greets her. “Plumette said she saw you come in here, and I thought you might like a nice cup of tea before breakfast.”

     “Thank you.” Belle climbs down from the gallery and helps herself. The teacup in her hands is not Chip, nor is it alive. She pours herself a cup of tea and puts in a splash of milk.

     “Yesterday he said that the library is mine,” Belle says. “Do you think he meant it?”

     “If that's what he said, than that's what he means,” Mrs. Potts replied. She smiles. “Though I am amazed, to tell you the truth. He does love his library.”

     Belle senses the chance to learn more about her erstwhile captor and seizes it. “He's been nicer since I told him I love books.”

     “I'm not surprised,” Mrs. Potts says. “He's never really had anyone to confide in, our Ad-Master. His father didn't allow secrets and held his love of learning in contempt. The master learned to hide it. Deep down, he's really not at all bad.”

     Belle thinks of the shouting, the tantrums, the pointless taking of prisoners. It all seems so at odds with the character the Beast had showed her yesterday. All of that anger and selfishness-was it just a front? Was he simply so used to acting like that that he had forgotten how to be gentle?

     “This was his mother's refuge before it was his, anyway,” Mrs. Potts continues. “They used to spend afternoons in here, eating cake and reading.”

     “When did she die?”

     “A long time ago, now. The master was nine.”

     So he had known his mother, and loved her. Belle feels a flash of envy at that, followed by guilt. Is it right to feel envious of someone who had to live with the horror of losing their mother at an age when they would remember the pain? At least Belle had been a baby when her own mother died. And she had always had Maurice. It sounded like the Beast had had no one to turn to.

     Her conversation with Mrs. Potts gives Belle an idea, though, one she chews on as she makes her way down to breakfast. The Beast is there, dressed once again in his worn overcoat. He gives her a shy good morning as she enters the dining room, and devotes his attention to his breakfast. The spread is lavish; each place set with a variety of small platters and tureens that contain sausage and boiled eggs, milky porridge, thin slices of ham and cheese. A basket contains hot fresh rolls and pain au chocolat, with little pots of cherry jam and butter set adjacent to it. Belle fills her plate and sneaks a look across at the Beast, wondering if he's going to stick his face into a tureen again, but he has opened his own bread basket and is making open sandwiches of the rolls. A sweet and a savoury, Belle notices: one sandwich is of meat and cheese, another of butter and the cherry jam. They eat in silence for a while before Belle decides that her idea is a good one and clears her throat.

     “These pain au chocolat are delicious. I've only had them once before.”

     The Beast looks up, surprised. “Really?”

     “Yes, chocolate is expensive, so the baker in town only makes them occasionally. Papa bought one for each of us when we were living in Rouen.”

     She sees the Beast process this information. He raises a hand towards his basket, as though he is about to slide it down the table to her, then withdraws it. Is he worried the gesture will be taken as pity? Belle continues.

     “I did all of our cooking and baking, anyway. I quite enjoy it. Baking especially can be quite scientific.”

     “Monsieur Cuisinier told me once that baking is pure chemistry,” the Beast says. He gives her that shy look again, as though afraid of admitting this. “As I child I used to spend a great deal of time in the kitchens.”

     Belle smiles, wondering if this was before or after his mother's death. Before, she decides.

     “Do you think he would let me bake something?”

     The Beast looks surprised at the question. “Of course. You are our-you are free to do whatever you please.”

      _Good_. “Thank you, but I'll ask his permission all the same. It is his kitchen, after all.”

     The Beast opens his mouth to protest that no, actually, it is _his_ kitchen, but stops. He knows that the kitchen is a chef's domain, whatever the owner of the house thinks. Belle smiles into her hot chocolate.

     “Do you have any preferences?” she asks.

     “What?”

     “Do you have any desserts a simple country girl like me could make?”

     The Beast gives her a funny look. “You are hardly simple. I...perhaps you should make your own favorite.”

     Belle smiles again. “All right, then.”

     Monsieur Cuisinier is delighted to allow Belle to use his kitchen, and watches with interest as she raids the pantry for ingredients. Butter, sugar, eggs, flour, almonds that she grinds into powder, an orange that she first zests and then juices. The cake is simple, homely, the sort of thing to be eaten with afternoon tea. Belle makes just the one and dusts it with icing sugar when it is cool. She sets it on a blue and white china platter, asks Mrs. Potts if she could provide them with coffee. Chip, who has been watching the baking process with real interest and peppering Belle with questions, asks if he may be a part of the tea service. And so, armed with cake, coffee, fresh cream, and sugar, Belle and the Potts family make their way to the library.

     It is easy enough to set a table near the fire with the snack. Belle fetches down a book of fairy tales and begins to read aloud to Chip as Lumiere goes to fetch the master.

     “No one's eaten in here in years,” remarked Mrs. Potts. “I do hope you won't be offended if he doesn't take it well, my poppet.”

     “Well, if he doesn't, we can enjoy ourselves, anyway,” Belle says, giving Chip a conspiratorial wink.

     Moments later the library doors open and the Beast walks in. From the expression on his face, Belle knows he can smell the cake and coffee filling the air.

     “Join us,” she invites him. “We were just reading together. Would you like some cake?”

     The Beast looks incredulous, but sits. He takes a slice of the homely cake, lifts it delicately between his fingers, and takes a bite. His eyes close in pleasure. Belle and Mrs. Potts trade a grin.

     “This is delicious,” he says. “Is it...orange?”

     “Orange and almond sponge,” Belle says, satisfied. “I got the recipe from the concierge of a boarding house Papa and I lived in when I was little. Almonds are expensive, so I used to substitute hazelnuts for them. But you have plenty here.”

     The Beast gives her that small, shy smile. “And is this a habit of yours? Eating cake and reading?”

     “Occasionally, usually in the autumn and winter months. Papa would work upstairs and I would do my lessons, and we would have cake and talk together.”

     “That sounds wonderful.” There is longing in the Beast's voice that makes Belle wonder if he is thinking of gentler times. “What are you reading?”

     “A tale of mystery and adventure,” Belle replies. “We are enjoying ourselves, aren't we, Chip?”

     “It's an _excellent_ story,” the little teacup agrees.

     “You should stay,” Belle tells the Beast. “We haven't gotten to the good part yet. And have some more cake; there's plenty to share.”

     The Beast nods and settles into an armchair. Belle tucks her feet up under her skirts and continues to read. A comfortable stillness falls on the library. They eat cake and read, and Belle wonders at the difference three days has made.

     She could almost be home.

 

 

 

Author's Note: Belle's cake is an actual French recipe taken from Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking". It is much loved in my household. You can find the recipe here: https://peacefulcooking.blogspot.com/2010/01/orange-and-almond-sponge-cupcakes.html

Thank you again for your comments and kudos! As ever, please let me know what you think of this chapter. Comments make my heart sing. 


	14. Blankets

 

     Adam wakes in the night to a soft mewling whimper. Beside him, Belle twists and cries under the blankets, her brows knitted together in fear. It is deep in the night four days since the curse has broken, and Adam recognizes a nightmare when he sees one.

     He rolls over and takes Belle in his arms, gathering her to him and curling his body around hers. “Hush, my love. It's all right. Everything is all right. Shh, Belle, it's a bad dream. Rest easy now,” he soothes, rocking her.

     Moonlight bathes them; her lashes are wet with tears. Adam continues to soothe and stroke, the words unfamiliar on his lips but the sentiment genuine. He does not want Belle to be afraid, just as much as he knows that the nightmares will continue to come. She is a quieter dreamer than he is. Where Adam wakes in the night screaming, Belle whimpers. Perhaps this is the result of living in a tiny cottage with her father in the next room. Adam doesn't know. He can only hold her and try to offer comfort.

     “Adam?” her voice is small in the darkness. She curls in close to him, her breath coming in little jerks.

     “I'm here, Belle. It's all right. It was a bad dream.”

     Belle laughs a sob. “I know, it's just...” She raises herself up on an elbow and looks at him in the moonlight. “It was so real.”

     Adam runs his hands over her soft hair. “What was it?”

     For a long moment she is silent. Then, “It was the night that the curse broke. You...you were dying and there was nothing I could do. The light went out of your eyes and you were just...just gone. And I looked around at the rose and the last petal had fallen and I-I just...You didn't come back. You turned to dust in my hands and all that was left was blood.”

     Adam can't help it; he shivers at her words. He remembers everything about that awful night. He remembers it, the unendurable pain of the bullets in his body, the way he had gone ice cold as he lay in the sticky heat of his own blood. The horror in Belle's eyes. “But I came back. I'm here, because of you. You mustn't feel guilty, my love.”

     Belle doesn't seem to hear him. “And you know the really horrible part?” she whispers. “The villagers were standing around me, watching, and _they were laughing at me_.”

     The bottom drops out of Adam's stomach; he goes cold at her words.

     Belle wipes her eyes. “It was my fault, Adam. It was my fault that they came here to kill you. I thought that if they saw you in the Mirror, they would let Papa go. I should have known they wouldn't listen. They all looked so _satisfied_ when Gaston locked me in that wagon.” She shivers in his arms. “They were all there, in my dream. The villagers. They stood around me as I held you and laughed at me. I screamed and screamed for them to help me, to help you, and they _wouldn't_. They wouldn't help.”

     Belle is crying again, and not from sadness. This is outrage. She sits up and folds her arms around herself, tears running down her cheeks. Adam sits up, too, helpless.

     “Belle, you are not responsible for their actions. You were trying to save your father. You did what you thought would help him,” he says. He puts his hands on her elbows, trying to see through her curtain of hair. “Belle, look at me. We are here. None of them can hurt you anymore.”

     Belle's eyes glitter in the moonlight. “They didn't hurt me the way they hurt you.”

     “Poppycock,” Adam snaps. “They turned on you. You have every right to be angry.”

     Belle draws in a shivering breath. “They-they wanted to take my _home_ from me! My father, my friends, you-they wanted to destroy it all. And they'd have _killed their own loved ones,_ Adam! Just because they were afraid.”

     Adam nods. He knows she is right, for he had thought the same thing as he watched the mob tearing through his gardens towards the castle.

     “I begged for your life, Adam. I told them not to be afraid of you, that you were kind and gentle and cursed, and they listened to Gaston over me.” Belle wipes her eyes, furious, contemptuous. “I don't know why I was surprised. They never liked me. I was the funny girl whose laundry was dumped out for teaching a child to read. They were never going to care for me. I don't know why I tried.”

     This is too much for Adam. He pulls Belle into his lap and wraps his arms around her, holding her as close as he can. “You tried because you are _you_. Because you are _good_ , Belle. You had no reason to care for me and yet you defended me to them. You saved us all, Belle, because you were the only one of them capable of seeing into a person's heart. None of them could have broken the curse.”

     “You could have died forever and it would have been all my fault.”

     Adam tips her chin up to him. “Belle. _You_ did _not_ set them on me. _You_ did _not_ shoot me or beat me or kill me. You _came back_. You are the only person, ever, in my entire life, who cared enough about me to come back.”

     Belle wraps her arms around his neck. “I was always going to come back, you silly man. As soon as I saw the madhouse wagon, I was going to take Papa and come back here forever. They wanted to lock him up, and they wanted to kill you and I _hate them_. I hate them!”

     She bursts into tears and buries her face in his shoulder, sobbing. Adam doesn't know what to say, and so says nothing. He holds her tight for a long time, rubbing her back, stroking her hair, until the storm dies down and finally stops.

     “I'm sorry,” Belle whispers.

     “Don't be. You are allowed to be angry. Heaven knows I know the feeling.” Adam takes her hand and puts it on his chest, over his heart so that she can feel its steady beat. “But we are alive, Belle. They didn't succeed in locking Maurice away, or killing me. We must remember that.”

     Belle presses her palm flat against Adam's chest. Her eyes are beginning to smile again. “You came back.”

     “We both did.” For a long moment they smile at each other. Then Adam sets Belle back onto the mattress. “And now to bed, before we both get any more maudlin.”

     He gets up and fetches a handkerchief. There is a bowl of water on the dressing table; he wets it there and runs it over Belle's face, wiping the tears away. Belle hiccups and smiles at him, and Adam's heart swells with love for her. His dear, brave Belle. Adam shakes out the blankets and climbs back into bed, wrapping his arms around her, tucking them both up into safety and security. Belle sighs and nestles down into his arms. Healing will come in time. For now it is enough for them to lie here, safe and warm and alive, to let sleep steal over them again.

     “Adam?”

     “Hmm?”

     “Thank you for loving me.”

     No one has ever said that to Adam before, certainly not the woman who saved his life and the lives of his staff. Adam strokes Belle's hair. “Thank _you_ , my dear one.”

     They sleep.

 

 

 

Author's Note: I was five when the original BATB came out in 1991, and I distinctly remember how angry I was at the villagers for their actions, and how I was so glad that Belle got to be a princess so that she didn't have to live with those people any longer. Twenty-six years on, I still think it would take Belle a good long time to get over their actions and the associated trauma. 

Also, there are over two thousand hits on this story! I am so pleased that you all are enjoying it! As ever, please let me know what you think in the comments. 

 


	15. Tears

 

     Adam is not used to crying, nor is it an action he particularly enjoys. Crying means grief. It means pain. It means something calamitous has occurred that has so rocked his world that Adam cannot keep the pain and fear in, nor channel it into anger and arrogance. He has never liked the stuffy-nosed wetness of crying, or the way the grief of it claws at this throat. And never, _never_ did he think that it was possible to cry from joy.

     He is human again, and Belle is with him, and his staff-his friends-surround them, patting shoulders and kissing cheeks and hugging, and Adam cannot stop the tears from running down his face.

     They had come on quite suddenly, when Mrs. Potts broke away from her husband and child with a cry and wrapped both arms around him.

     “Oh, Adam, I knew it would happen,” she whispered in his ear, and Adam burst into tears.

     “She came back,” he whispers. His nanny-turned-housekeeper brushes the tears from his face.

     “Of course she did,” she murmurs. “I knew she would.”

     Belle's father arrives then, in the company of the local priest, and the story tumbles from everyone's lips as they try to explain to the confused gentleman that his daughter broke the curse, and just how she did it. Adam wipes his eyes and bows to Maurice; he wants to fall at the man's feet and beg for forgiveness, but somehow he doubts anyone would appreciate the dramatic gesture, as heartfelt as it was meant. Adam isn't entirely sure that he would make it back to his feet if he did throw himself down, anyway: he aches all over from the fight in the towers and the hunter's bullets. He hugs himself as Belle explains that he was shot and killed, shivering. Shot and killed. And then he came back, as a man. Everyone is free.

     “He _shot you_ and you _died_?!” Mrs. Potts's face is almost comically horrified. The rest of the staff looks equally horrified, and Adam finds himself beginning to shake.

     “It really hurts,” he says, wiping at his eyes again.

     “Right,” Mrs. Potts says, taking him by the hand. “You are coming with me. You, too, Belle. Lumiere, Plumette, fetch tea and brandy and blankets.”

     She shepherds Adam into the little drawing room, which is blessedly quiet after the joyful chaos outside. Belle brings her father, and Chapeau, Cogsworth, and the Potts menfolk follow behind. Adam's shirt is removed, revealing a pattern of blackening bruises across his back and chest and shoulders. Chapeau examines him, clucking.

     “There are scars here,” he says in his soft voice. “Fully healed. I wonder why she left them?”

     “To let me know that I'm really alive,” Adam says. He accepts the glass of brandy that Lumiere puts into his hands. He can't seem to stop crying, which is ridiculous. He has never been so happy.

     Chapeau lets his shirt drop. “It must have been quite a fight. Those are terrible bruises.”

     Adam barks a laugh. Belle bursts into tears. “It's all my fault!” she wails. “I was only trying to _help_!”

     Maurice takes her into his arms. “Hush, Belle, it is not your fault. Nor yours, either, Prince...Adam, was it? Neither of you stood a chance against that mob.”

     “Eh, we gave them a good fight,” Lumiere says, putting an arm around Plumette. “If only we had not let that hunter through.”

     “What happened to Gaston, anyway?” Maurice asks.

     Belle raises her teary face from his shoulder. “The footpath crumbled and he fell. I think he's dead. I wasn't really paying attention; he'd just shot Adam point-blank in the back...”

     The memory of those gunshots is very recent; Adam and Belle both break down crying again. It strikes Adam as ridiculous that they are both spiraling between extreme joy and utter devastation, and he begins to giggle through his tears. Lumiere advances on his with more brandy.

     “I'm so happy!” Adam tells them, laughing and crying. He holds his hands out to Belle; she comes to wrap her arms around him and they lean on each other, bawling and laughing. This makes the reasonable adults in the room look at each other in some consternation.

     Maurice is the first to make a move. “Right, you two. I don't pretend to understand what's gone on here, but you've both had a shock. Best to let it all out, so go on and have a good cry.” He looks at Mrs. Potts, who strikes him as having an even head. “They'll need to eat; it'll help. Probably sleep, too; I know that Belle at least has been up all night. Is there any way to make them some breakfast?”

     “Yes, I can find Monsieur Cuisinier-” Mrs. Potts begins, but Plumette interrupts.

     “There is a banquet laid in the front hall. I think it must be a parting gift from the Enchantress. People are helping themselves,” she says. “I will fetch a tray.”

     Adam watches her go, swishing in her white gown. “Thank you,” he says. Belle echoes him. Adam smiles at her, brushes the tears from her cheeks. He wants to kiss her, to hold her, to dance around the room and carry on like a child at Christmas. Instead he is surrounded by his friends, his family, and they are all looking so worried that Adam starts to laugh again.

     “It's all right!” he all but sobs. “I'm so happy!”

     Maurice crouches down before them and takes their hands in each of his. “Look at me, Belle, Adam. It's _all right_. You wouldn't be human if you weren't reacting in some way. You go ahead and cry. It's all right.”

      Gratitude fills Adam then with such a great swell that he is almost overwhelmed. Gratitude for Belle, for her father, for his family, for the Enchantress who forced him to see them. He clutches Belle's father's hand and smiles and weeps. It is _all right_.

 

 

 

Author's Note: I'm sorry I'm so late with this one! I am on something of a world tour and the last few days have been a whirlwind of laundry and packing and flying to Britain. I had a hard time with this prompt, anyway, because the last chapter was so angsty and I wanted to do something different, but couldn't think what. So you get an extension of that scene I've alluded to so often, the post-curse reaction setting in. I hope you enjoy. Please let me know!

 


	16. Memory

     Belle stands in the window of the ballroom gallery and gazes out at the snow. Flakes fall from the sky in a dancing white veil, beautiful even against the permanent winter of this strange estate. It really _is_ beautiful, Belle muses, despite the Beast's grim attitude towards it. It had been all she could do to make him walk with her in the gardens the other day, but once they were outside he had been subdued, seemingly looking at the world with new eyes as she had read poems aloud. The door leading onto the balcony below is open; from her vantage point in the gallery, Belle can see Plumette dancing in the snowflakes, as Lumiere looks on. What a place this is. It is a layered mystery of a castle, though Belle feels that she is beginning to make a dent in solving the puzzle. It pleases her that the Beast is beginning to open up to her, to show her the tender heart beneath the cold and arrogant exterior. She still doesn't know why he was cursed, or how to break the spell, but she is happy that he is calmer now.

     The cake in the library yesterday had been a tremendous idea. He had been almost happy then, Belle thinks. He had opened up, just a little. He is so shy and unsure, it makes Belle's heart twist. It is as if every moment, with every word and action, he worries that she will belittle him or mock him. Belle is certain that if she did, he would retreat behind that mask of cold arrogance. Had his father been the one to do that to him? It must have been.

     Belle knows well how vital a father's love is. She longs for Maurice with every beat of her heart. Not having a mother has always been difficult, but without her father, Belle would be lost. How must it have been to lose a loving parent and be left with an indifferent one? No, not indifferent. An indifferent father would not have twisted his son up, as Mrs. Potts had said about the Beast's father. How galling it must be to feel totally alone, and how lonely.

     Well, he isn't alone now. For as long as she is here, Belle intends to befriend her erstwhile host, as much as he will allow her. (She doesn't realize how close to her he already feels.)

     Later, in the library, armed once again with tea and cake, Belle settles down to await him. The Beast has developed the habit of entering the library when she is there, ostensibly to see if she is all right. The first day he had pretended it was his duty as host to join her, but he is a little less awkward now. Sometimes he comes in, selects a book, and sits quietly. Today, though, Belle lies in wait, greeting him as soon as he comes through the door.

     “How was your walk with Philippe? Did you two have a good talk?”

     The Beast gives her a surprised look. “How did you know...?”

     “We always talk to Philippe, Papa and I. He's a very good listener. And anyway, I saw you walking through the window.”

     “Ah.” The Beast sits down in a nearby armchair, eyeing the cake. “We had a good walk, yes. Is that cake...?”

     Belle reaches for a plate, one of the gold and silver dessert set that Mrs. Potts had given her. “It's a lemon yogurt cake today. Something simple, like a grandmother would bake of an afternoon. I hope you like it.”

     The Beast gives her that shy smile of his and accepts the plate. Belle notices that he does not eat when she is looking at him, and busies herself cutting her own piece.

     “Papa jokes that I should be a baker,” she tells him. “But I don't think that's the role for me.”

     “Oh?”

     “No, once you begin in a path you don't like, it can be very hard to escape it. Besides, Papa knows that I'd be a terrible baker.”

     The Beast looks surprised. “You're an excellent baker. This cake is delicious.”

     “Thank you. I mean, I wouldn't enjoy doing it professionally. It isn't _me_. Does that make sense?”

     The Beast hesitates, thinking, then shakes his head. “I'm afraid not. Could you explain?”

     This is precisely what Belle wanted him to say. “Do you remember what I said the other day about not wanting to be what other people expect of me, but my own person? It's like that. I would be a good baker, but it wouldn't make me happy.”

     “Ah.” The Beast mulls this over. “You mean that you will not be forced into being something you are not. That's very admirable, Belle. I wish I had your strength of character.”

     “Do you not?” she asks lightly.

     “No.” When Belle doesn't reply, he sighs. “All my life I have been told who to be, how to be. It got so that I did not know how to be anything but a selfish little-well, anyway. I was never true to myself, as Polonius advised.”

     Belle smiles a little at the reference. “I'm sorry.”

     “Don't be,” the Beast says shortly. “I was a coward.”

     “It seems to me that you were young,” Belle replies. “Mrs. Potts...mentioned it.”

     He gives her a humorless smile. “That my cruel father twisted me up and she and the rest of them did nothing. Yes, I heard. And she's right. He did twist me up. I didn't realize it until after the Enchantress came.”

     He looks down at the empty plate in his hands. Belle wonders if she should speak, but the silence is not uncomfortable. There is sorrow in his eyes, a self-loathing that she does not like the look of.

     “My father only valued coldness and cruelty,” he says at last. “If I displeased him in any way, I was punished. I knew I couldn't count on the staff to help me, so I imitated him as best I could. I...wanted him to love me. He never did.” Belle reaches out and puts her hand on his arm. He gives her a sad smile. “Anyway, he's dead now. I can't say I'm sorry about it.”

     Belle thinks about all of the times she ran crying to her father about pains real and imagined. She remembers the times when food was short, how he always made sure her belly was full. She remembers how heavy his grief weighs on him, and how he has never let it make him bitter. Belle knows that she owes everything to her father. Everything she is is because of him. She imagines the Beast before her as the child in the ruined portrait upstairs, and feels a pang of sorrow at the thought of him being punished for being himself.

     “What is your happiest memory?” Belle asks, not wanting him to linger in sadness.

     The Beast looks surprised. “What do you mean?”

     “I mean your happiest memory. Surely you must have one?” When he continues to hesitate, Belle continues. “I'll tell you mine. Papa and I had not yet come to Villeneuve. We were still living near Versailles. Papa was making a decent living painting portraits for the court, and I was able to go to school in the town. There was a fête on Midsummer's Night-for the King's birthday, maybe?- and the entire town turned out for it. We were doing rather well at the time, and Papa bought me a new frock to wear, and a flower crown for my hair. There were musicians in the street, and players, and there were fireworks over the palace, and we stayed up dancing until the small hours. It was the first time I had ever seen my father without sorrow in his eyes. It was the first time I had ever felt pure joy. I'll never forget it.”

     The Beast looks delighted by the memory, his blue eyes shining. “I've seen the fireworks at Versailles. They are the most beautiful in the world.”

     Belle is surprised, though she shouldn't be. He _was_ a man once, after all, and a rich one. “Go on, then. I've told you mine. What's yours?”

     The Beast hesitates another moment before speaking. “The year I turned nine, I received my first horse. I had only been allowed on ponies before then. He was a gelding, a blood bay. I was allowed to gallop around the grounds and attend the hunt on him. I named him Samson.”

     “What happened to him?”

     “He was retired to pasture when I turned twenty-one.”

     “Did you get another horse?” What a silly question; of course he did. But the Beast does not scoff.

     “I did. Achilles. So that I could say, 'Achilles-heel!'” he chuckles at the memory. “I wonder what happened to him,” he adds wistfully.

     “What do you mean?”

     The Beast shakes his head, suddenly weary. “He and all of the other horses vanished after we were cursed. I don't know what the Enchantress did to them.”

     Belle feels sick; how awful to lose your pet. She touches the Beast's arm again. “I'm sorry. Shall we...would you like me to read?”

     “Yes, please,” the Beast says.

     Belle reads, guilt clawing at her insides. She had wanted to learn more about him, but she has only succeeded in stirring up pain.

     (She does not yet realize how good the Beast finds it to confide in her.)

 

 

Author's Note: I operate on the theory that you cannot full in love with a person until you understand them. Belle and Beast!Adam are therefore working towards a mutual understanding. This can be read together with Prompt 12: Dreams and Prompt 13: Dessert. I hope you like it! Please let me know!

Side note: I am in Oxford until next week, when I graduate from grad school and go off to Scotland for a few days. I'm going to continue to post when I can, but I'm playing tourist and also visiting friends and family, so I may lag behind a bit. 

 

 

 


	17. Passion

 

     Adam was being entirely honest with Belle about his opinion of _Romeo and Juliet_ , but he does not consider himself a snob. Well, he reflects, perhaps he _is_ a snob, but he is willing to concede defeat in an argument. Now. With someone whose opinion he respects.

     There have never been many of those in his life. The last person whose opinion he really respected was his final governor, an Englishman out of Oxford who had in large part helped to form Adam's literary tastes. Mr. Henry Vane had been demanding, but not unkind, and he had insisted on Adam's best work. Vane had had no time for princely airs and graces. There were books to be read, essays to be written, equations to learn. Adam had lived in terror of the older man being dismissed and sent back to England, and had done every piece of academic work he demanded. Not that it had helped: Vane had been dismissed shortly after Adam turned nineteen, when he had had his charge read Behn's _Oroonoko_. Adam had made the wretched mistake of mentioning the book to his father, who took exception to his son finding humanity in anyone lesser than he. And that had been the end of Vane.

     Adam took some comfort from knowing that his tutor had returned to his college in Oxford to teach, and had in no way suffered anything more than humiliation at the Prince de Courcy's hands. He wrote to Cogsworth occasionally, telling him of doings in the city, and Cogsworth had had the habit of repeating the news, ostensibly to Lumiere, within Adam's earshot. Adam liked to imagine old Vane leading lectures and taking tea in his rooms at the university, a place he had always spoken of with great fondness. And in truth, Adam knew that Vane had been keen to go. Life in the Chateau de Courcy under the increasingly unstable Prince had been anything but pleasant.

     It pleases Adam that the old tutor isn't cursed with the rest of them.

     Still, it was not until Belle came that Adam has really had anyone to talk with about his books. The library had been more of a meeting place for visitors when his father the Prince was alive, and by the time he had died, when Adam was twenty-two, Adam was too fearful of mockery and scorn to share his bookish side with anyone. And then Belle came. Belle, that one-woman force of chaos who was shaking the cobwebs from the entire household and forcing them to live again. Forcing _Adam_ to live again.

     He found her early one morning in the library, sorting through a pile of old notebooks. _His_ old notebooks, Adam saw, with a slight shock.

     “Do you ever sleep?” he asked, and the girl turned to him with a wry face.

     “Yes, sometimes. Good morning,” she said. She brandished a paper at him. “Who is A?”

     Adam had only ever signed his essays with an initial; no one else in the castle had to write them, and he had been an arrogant fool.

     “What have you found?”

     “Notebooks,” Belle replied, waving one at him again. “Whose were they?”

     “Mine,” Adam says after a pause. He hopes that the youthful scrawlings can do no harm. He had never been one to keep a diary before, preferring not to think too deeply about his life. His essays for Vane and the other tutors had been about as deep as anything he'd been capable of producing. (Would it do him good to keep a journal now? He wonders.)

     “And what does A stand for?”

     Adam skirts the table and comes to stand on the other side. He reaches for a notebook. “Apple.”

     Belle gives him a look. Adam doesn't meet her gaze; he cannot, _cannot_ , tell her that he is Adam de Courcy. He cannot let her give him hope, and if she calls him by name...no. He is a creature. Creatures do not have names. When he doesn't speak, Belle changes tactics.

     “Some of these are rather good. I see your tutor thought so, too.”

     Adam shakes his head. “My tutors were always after me to do better. I didn't put much effort into most of my work. It...wasn't valued.”

     He sees Belle mentally adding the end of the sentence- _by my father_ -and looks away. The last few notebooks belong to the Vane years, and he hands them to her.

     “If you want to see a really heartfelt effort, look here. These are for the one tutor I really wanted to please.”

     Belle takes the notebooks with murmured thanks. She reads them during breakfast, as Adam makes himself open sandwich after open sandwich (he is always so _hungry_ as a creature; he doesn't know where the food goes) and tries not to stare at her. Lumiere has started to seat them closer to each other at the huge table, so it is hard to direct his attention anywhere else. Belle eats three _pain au chocolat_ in a row and makes occasional sounds of amusement or consternation at the papers.

     “You were a very passionate student,” she says at last, closing the notebook. “I liked your spirited defense of Lancelot's actions.”

     “A good teacher will do that to you,” Adam replies, trying not to be pleased. That essay is ancient.

     Belle shakes her head. “A good teacher can only do so much. A student has to want to learn, first. You were clearly enjoying yourself.”

     Adam does not know how to accept praise from her. From anyone, really. “I was only eighteen.”

     “And how old are you now?”

     He stares at her. How old is he? He has no idea. The years have bled into each other; none of them keep track anymore. The Potts boy hasn't grown up, which confuses everyone, but Adam knows that they have been here for a very long time. Years and years and years. It is enough to drive you mad.

     “I was twenty-five when the Enchantress came,” he says at last. “That was a long time ago.”

     “Hm.” Belle drinks her coffee and contemplates the notebooks. “It's a puzzle, this place. I keep thinking I've begun to understand it, but then something happens to show me that I've got it all wrong.”

     “You should read the metaphysical poets. They'll have you questioning everything.”

     Belle laughs. “You'll have to introduce me to them. I've never read a metaphysical poet before.”

     Adam snorts. “Perhaps you'll like them more than I did. They were Vane's-my tutor's-favorite. Only time he was boring was when he started on John Donne.”

     He wants to ask Belle what she has begun to understand about the castle. He wants to ask her what she's learned about them. But he can see himself through her eyes and cannot face the fact that he is still a creature to her, not just a lonely unloved man who finds it hard to open himself up. So he hides behind quips, as he has always done. Belle duly chuckles, but she is not finished with him yet.

     “I've never met as passionate a reader as myself. It's very refreshing.”

     “Is it?”

     “Yes. All my life I've been bullied and mocked for being myself. Somehow I think you're the first person I've met who really understands that.”

     Adam looks at her, this beautiful girl who has absolutely refused to be intimidated by him, and he sees a kindred spirit. She, too, has been afraid and uncertain. But she has never let that make her into a monster, the way he has. He knows that the staff are counting on them to fall in love, but Adam knows that it will be a very one-sided love affair. The most he can hope of from Belle is friendship. Understanding is almost too much to ask for.

     He thinks that the villagers are idiots for disliking her.

     “I can show you where the Donne is shelved,” he says at last. “Whenever you're done with breakfast.”

     And Belle, realizing perhaps that she has discomfited him with her words, agrees and stands. They take the old notebooks back to the library, where she carefully puts them back onto their shelf. Adam gives them once last look before they go in search of the metaphysical poets. They are the passionate jottings of a young man desperate to live a different sort of life than the only one he knew how to live. If he could turn back time, Adam would tell his younger self to be like Belle, to not be afraid of his father and not act like such an odious little toerag. But he cannot, and no matter how much anyone hopes, Adam knows that there will be never be a chance for it now.

 

 

 

Author's Note: I'm not writing any sex scenes, guys, sorry. ;-)

Adam is so entirely without hope that you almost want to punch him. At least we all know how that'll turn out. Also, if anyone knows the Vane-Oxford connection, tell me and I will give you a virtual cookie. 

As ever, thanks for reading, and please let me know what you liked in the comments!

 


	18. Fruit

 

     Adam is smirking all over his face, so much so that Belle just knows he's up to something. She sets her pen down and looks him over.

     “All right, out with it-what have you done?”

     Adam's hands are behind his back; he bobs on his toes, his grin growing ever wider. “Nothing untoward, I promise.”

     Belle raises an eyebrow. Adam brings his hands out from behind himself and proudly shows her a spine-covered, green and yellow...thing. It looks sharp and prickly, and has succulent leaves growing out of its head like one of Versailles' most fashionable ladies. Belle has seen nothing like it and can't imagine what it is and where Adam might have gotten it.

     “What _is_ that?”

     “This, my dear Belle, is a pineapple. It's one of the most expensive and fashionable fruits in the world. Isn't it beautiful?” Adam looks on it with immense pride and no small amount of glee.

     “That's a _fruit_?”

     “Yes,” Adam says, turning it in his hands. “I had one once, at Versailles. They're almost impossible to cultivate in Europe, and often spoil on overseas voyages. They grow in the tropics. To have one is to be disgustingly rich and influential.” He snickers. There is clearly something he is holding back.

     “And where did you get this expensive, fashionable, inedible fruit, my dear Adam?”

     His eyes gleam with delighted naughtiness. “Tahiti. Just now. Cost me a couple of pennies, cut down right from the tree. I got four of them.”

     Clarity dawns. “You used the Atlas.”

     Adam looks disgustingly pleased with himself. “I used the Atlas.”

     Belle stares at her husband. This is so typically Adam that she doesn't know whether to be amused or exasperated.

     “And what, pray tell, are we going to do with four pineapples?”

     “Well.” Adam sets the strange fruit down on Belle's desk. “We could eat one, of course, though that is not generally done. We could gift one to the King. We could take one to parties and have people marvel at our wealth and good taste. Or we could sell one and buy a thousand new books for the library.”

     “I'm sorry, did you say _take one to a party and have people marvel at our wealth_? Why on earth would they do that?”

     Adam adopts a mock-serious tone. “Because they're filthy expensive, my love. One of these darlings costs about the same as a brand-new coach and four.”

     “You're joking.”

     “I'm not.”

     Belle shakes her head. “That...is ridiculous.”

     “I _know_.” Adam twirls the strange fruit. “Funny, I haven't the faintest idea how you prepare a pineapple. Most people just carry them around until they rot. In England you can even hire pineapples to show off at parties.”

     Belle bursts out laughing. She can't help it. The ways of the upper classes will never cease to bemuse her, but this strikes her as the funniest thing. Adam gives her a mock-affronted look.

     “Don't laugh, there is nothing funny about pineapples. Pineapples are deadly serious. The King himself would probably richly reward a gift of one.”

     “And do you _want_ to go up to Versailles and give him one?”

     “Not in the slightest. It was just an idea. Besides, then I'd have to explain where I got it, and I can't very well tell him that I have a magic book that takes me anywhere I want to go, now, can I?”

     Belle laughs again. “Certainly not. I suppose you could say you have holdings in Antigua.”

     Adam shakes his head. “But I do not have holdings in Antigua. And I never _will_ have holdings in Antigua. I suppose we'll have to eat them all here. What a tragedy. Shame.”

     “And tell me, just how do we eat this ridiculous fruit?”

     Adam examines it. “You know, I don't really know. I think you slice the skin off.”

     Belle leans on her elbows. “I suppose we could take them back to Tahiti and find out.”

     “An excellent idea. Come on, then. I left the Atlas in the library.”

     Belle stands, and pauses. “What does one wear to Tahiti?”

     Adam considers. “When using a magic book to get there? I would say whatever one wants.”

 

 

Author's Note: The eighteenth century culture of the pineapple is every bit as bonkers as Adam tells it. Yes, really. Thanks to my friend Soubrettina, who somehow started telling me about this yesterday and inspired this prompt.

Thanks again for reading! Please leave me a comment and let me know how you like the chapter!

 

 

 


	19. Cat

 

     Belle has never before had to really work hard to find it in her heart to forgive, but that was before the people she had not considered friends, exactly, but certainly not enemies, had tried their damnedest to destroy everything she loved. Since that awful night, a week ago now, she has not left the castle grounds. There has been no need; everything she needs is here. Adam, Maurice, the staff that she has come to consider family-they are all here, at the newly beautiful castle, and there is no need to leave. And indeed, none of them have asked her to. Not Adam, who has been so busy working with Cogsworth to get the castle's affairs in working order, and who besides is still settling into his newly human body. Not Maurice, who has spent the last few days recovering from his ordeal. Not Mrs. Potts, who took Chip down to the village for a few days to spend time with Monsieur Jean. Belle can easily imagine staying at the castle forever, never setting foot in Villeneuve again. Except that Adam, drat him, has decided that it is high time they visited the village.

     “ _Why?_ ” Belle demands.

     They are lying in bed together in the West Wing, early morning sunlight not quite intruding upon the big bed. They haven't slept apart since the curse broke, and Belle has no intention of sleeping apart again. (No one minds, least of all Maurice, who has rather bohemian views on the subject. She knows that in everyone's minds, she and Adam are as good as married.)

     Adam gives her a small smile. “Would you believe me if I said that I want to go to church?”

     Belle stares at him. It's not an unbelievable desire; she herself has attended mass nearly every Sunday and holiday since she was a baby. Nor is it an unreasonable one. But still. It's Villeneuve. Adam, seeing the indecision in her eyes, strokes her hair back.

     “You have to go back sometime,” he says, “but if that day is not today, that's all right. I just, well. I need to take communion. Absolve myself.”

     Belle almost forgets the village at the look in his eyes. “You feel you have sinned so much?”

     He barks a laugh. “I know I have sinned so much.”

     “I think you've more than earned forgiveness,” Belle points out. “Most sinners aren't damned by enchantresses.”

     Adam concedes the point, but holds firm. “It's just something I need to do. Besides, I like Père Robert. I don't mind confessing to him.”

     Belle sighs. Père Robert had been a vital shoulder to lean on that first day, when the world was new and they were so fragile in it. He had blessed both of them, sending Adam into another fit of tears. The priest had been the only villager who hadn't fallen under Gaston's spell, and Belle loves him for it. But she still does not want to go to Villeneuve.

     “You don't have to come with me,” Adam says, but Belle shakes her head.

     “No, I'll go. I think it will be easier if you are there with me. Besides, they're coming here again, aren't they? For the celebration ball. I should probably be on easier terms with them before they're in my own home.”

     Adam smiles at the word _home_ , and gives her a chaste kiss. “Thank you, Belle.”

     Belle curls back into the pillows. “You'd better make this worth my while, Adam.”

     Her lover-can she call him that when they haven't actually made love yet?-smiles again. He bends down and kisses her more lingeringly, once, twice, three times. Belle leans into these kisses, wrapping her arms about Adam's neck. He kisses her throat, her shoulder, the hollow between her collarbones.

     “I love you, dear one,” he whispers, those blue eyes of his full of tenderness.

     “I love you,” Belle whispers.

     She wants to stay like this, to feel his mouth against her skin for a little longer, to run her hands over his shoulders and through his hair, but Adam pulls away and rolls out of bed. One day they will go farther than this, but apparently this morning they are going to church, instead. Belle harrumphs and reaches for her dressing gown.

     (In truth, despite sharing a bed, they are a little shy of each others' physical desires. Adam because he has a past, and Belle because she doesn't. Give it time.)

     It is a glorious June day, the sun fully risen when Belle and Adam descend from the castle to the open carriage that awaits them. Maurice has declined to join them on this visit, preferring to stay at home and play chess with Cogsworth, with whom he has become good friends. Plumette and Madame de Garderobe have ensured that Belle is dressed in womanly armor: a simple but stunning gown that befits her status as lady of the house. The petticoats are sky blue linen, the bodice and skirts a fine white lawn with thin black stripes throughout. Her hair is elegantly pinned and tucked into a loose chignon on her neck and there is a blue ribbon wrapped around her head. It is a more sophisticated version of Belle's usual daily dress, and she is grateful for it. She is not a villager. She never was before, and now she never will be. Adam looks over her outfit with a smile.

     “You know, whenever I think of you when you're not there, I see you wearing blue.”

     “It _is_ my favorite color.”

     “And yet you wore yellow to our first dance.”

     Belle grins. “I didn't say I'm not open to experimentation.”

     She looks pointedly at his lips and is pleased to see him blush. With practice, she could get good at this.

     The drive is pleasant; they spend time talking of small things. Adam and Cogsworth have been hard at work sorting out the business of governing Adam's lands again, and he welcomes the break. It is not a long journey to Villeneuve, and Belle is glad that she has Adam to distract her as they approach the village. Her stomach twists with nervousness and she toys with the book in her lap. She will sit in the chapel and read after mass, while Adam confesses to Père Robert. He has warned her that this may take some time, and so she has brought with her Madame de Lafayette's novel, _The Princess of Cleves_. It promises to be interesting.

     There is a ripple through Villeneuve from the moment the carriage enters the town. Belle slips her hand into Adam's as they drive up to the church. People are staring at them. She should be used to this, and the looks are not unkind, but Belle is nervous all the same. These are the people she sees in her nightmares. Adam squeezes her hand.

     “It's all right,” he murmurs. “It will be all right.”

     They get out at the church. The bells toll for mass, and Père Robert is there at the door to greet them. It is a good service; the topic forgiveness and mercy. Afterwards, Belle settles herself in a corner near the confessional, and Adam and Père Robert disappear. She opens her book, prepared for a long wait, but is interrupted almost immediately.

     “Mademoiselle Belle?” It is Madame Chapeau, the milliner, mother of the triplets (ugh) and their very own Chapeau. She presses a spool of fine ribbon into Belle's hands, turquoise and gold. “I thought you might like these. They're of Arras silk.”

     Belle is surprised, and touched. “Thank you, Madame. That's very kind of you.”

     Madame Chapeau smiles. “You've given my son back to me, mademoiselle. It is the least I can do. If you should ever need of anything...”

     “I'll come to you,” Belle says. She smiles at Madame Chapeau, who was one of the few villagers to ever make her feel welcome.

     A few minutes later, one of the florists approaches her with a bouquet of pink ranunculas. Then a farmer's wife gives Belle several pots of jam. The stationer gives her a packet of fine writing paper; the baker a box of jam tarts. And on and on, small tokens and tributes from the villagers who have never before offered kindness and love. Belle, bemused, is gracious in her thanks. By the time Adam has finished confessing and returned to her, she is surrounded by baskets and flowers and fruit and ribbons. He grins.

     “What happened here?”

     Belle gives him a helpless look. “They're apologizing to me.”

     “Well, that's good. Are you all right?”

     “Yes. Are you?”

     Adam smiles again and nods. He has twenty Aves to pray this week, and he is absolved. He feels lighter than he has in years. The past is finally, _finally_ , in the past.

     Belle rises and comes to kiss him. Adam has hardly stopped smiling since he transformed back into a man. Happiness suits him. They gather together her new belongings, Adam slinging baskets on both arms (something he would never have done before, but the past is behind him now), and head back to the carriage. As they are settling the gifts onto the seat, Belle feels a tug on her skirt. She looks round; a small girl stands behind her, holding the inevitable basket, it's top covered with a square of linen. Belle recognizes her as Eva, the small girl she had gotten into so much trouble for teaching to read.

     “Hello, Eva! How are you?”

     Eva bobs a curtsy. “Very well, thanks. The headmaster has enrolled me in school!”

     Belle stares. “ _Really?_ ”

     “Yes, you see, he remembered his daughter, Bette, when you broke the curse, and how much he loves her, and how he'd taught her to read. And he remembered that he was starting to teach other girls, too. Only then the curse came, and he forgot. So all the girls in the village can go to school now, if they want.” Eva looks delighted, bobbing on her toes.

     Belle is speechless. She had seen the headmaster with his arms around a young girl, back on that first day, but she had not given it any thought. “That...that's amazing. Thank you for telling me, Eva.”

     Eva blushes with delight. “Thank _you_ for teaching me to read. I practice every day. Père Robert gave me a book of Bible stories to learn. He said that way no one can get after me.” She holds out the basket to Belle. “I want to give you this. It's a present.”

     Belle takes the basket and looks under the linen cover. Inside rests a marmalade kitten with a scrap of ribbon tied about its neck. She gasps in delight and shows Adam, who laughs in surprise.

     “A kitten! Thank you, Eva. Is it-this isn't _your_ kitten, is it?”

     “No, my cat had kittens, and they're all going to new homes. I thought you'd like one. Do you like it?” The little girl is suddenly nervous.

     Belle strokes the little cat's downy head. “I love it. Is it a male or a female?”

     “A female. She hasn't got a name yet.”

     “I'm sure we'll think of something,” Adam says. He holds his fingers out to the kitten to sniff. “I've always wanted a kitten. A library cat. We had one when I was small. Thank you, Eva.”

     He grins at Eva, who blushes at being spoken to by a handsome prince. The story will be around the village in no time, how Prince Adam and Mademoiselle Belle have adopted a kitten.

     By the time they return to the castle, Belle is feeling much better disposed to the people of Villeneuve. It is a funny thing, being apologized to. Of course, no one can bring themselves to actually say the words, but Belle understands pride when she sees it. She strokes the little kitten, who has fallen asleep in her lap.

     “It was worth it, coming into town,” she says to Adam. “If only to learn that the girls can go to school now.”

     “Yes, we'll have to send them books,” Adam remarks. Belle looks at him. “Not our books, but new ones. I can order them from Paris. I'll have to speak with the headmaster, of course, first.”

     Belle takes his hand and kisses it. “I love you.”

     Maybe forgiveness isn't so hard to find, after all.

 

 

Author's Note: Hello from Scotland! I'm here for a few days, playing tourist, but will still try to update regularly. I like this habit of daily writing that I've fallen into. I really hope you like this chapter. The way Belle and Adam are going, they're going to have a full menagerie very quickly. Please comment and let me know how you liked the chapter!

 


	20. Sick

 

     “You have to help me,” the girl says, bending over him. “You have to stand.”

     Her cape is warm on Adam's shoulders, though it barely begins to cover him. Lying there on the ice-rimed snowbank, Adam knows that it is meant more as a peace offering than anything else; the girl, Belle, could easily mount up and leave him behind to the wolves, but for some reason she has chosen to help him. Adam looks at her, bewildered. He cannot imagine why.

     “Come on,” Belle says. She sounds almost impatient now, tapping his face with sharp fingers. “Don't go away again. You have to get up. Those wolves will be back.”

     Adam growls at her. It is a feral sound; it would scare him if he hadn't long ago gotten used to his terrible form. The girl-Belle-just glares at him, and Adam begins to struggle upright. Anything to get those fingers out of his face.

     “That's good,” Belle says. “Lean on me, now. Come on. Stay, Philippe. It's all right.”

     The horse prances nervously, but Belle continues to talk soothingly to it as they approach, and it does not bolt. What is left of Adam's heart cracks a little at the horse's fear; he loved horses once. The random upwelling of grief, combined with the pain of the wolf bites and scratches, makes him angry. The pain is incredible, sharpening the edges of the horror that fills him, and he longs to scream and shout. He snarls, and Philippe rears back.

     “What were you _thinking_?”

     Exasperated, Belle lets go of his arm, and Adam falls heavily down onto the ice. “ _Damn_ it!”

     “Damn yourself,” Belle snaps back at him, and moves carefully towards the horse. “Come on, Philippe, he won't hurt you. We need your help, that's a good lad. Good, lad, that's right. Calm down.”

     She strokes the horse, murmuring gently to him. Adam sits bleeding in the snow and wants to cry from pain and frustration and anger. He does not understand why he is jealous of a horse. He's the one who's bleeding.

     “Come on,” Belle says at last, and helps him stand upright again. Adam sways and clutches at the saddle. He needs to get home. Absurdly, he wants to see Mrs. Potts. He wants Chapeau and Lumiere, even old Cogsworth, to be with him, to help him. Of course he can never let them know. Adam loves his servants as much as he can love anyone, but he cannot forget how they stood by and watched his father abuse him. His lungs constrict as he clambers onto Philippe's back. They turned their backs on him, and he turned his back on them, and now everything is terrible and he hates everyone.

     “It'll be all right,” Belle says, her voice more gentle. “We're almost to the castle now.”

     Indeed, they are almost at the gates, which spring open as they approach. Belle thanks them as they pass into the grounds, and Adam stares at her.

     “You're thanking the gates now?”

     “It's called _courtesy_. It's something you seem to lack.”

     “It's their _job_ to open the gates!”

     “And saying _thank you_ is not a moral failing!”

     Adam glares. Belle glares back, marching them up the path towards the castle. They are met by the entire staff, all of them shouting in dismay. Belle and Chapeau help Adam slide off Philippe.

     “There were wolves,” Belle says, unnecessarily in Adam's opinion. “He came after me.”

     “Well, obviously,” he snarls at her. “I'm not in the habit of biting myself until I bleed.”

     Belle takes his good arm and puts it around her shoulders, propping him up as they move inside. “For all I know, you could be. You're certainly bad tempered enough!”

     “ _Bad tempered_? We were almost just eaten by wolves! I have a right to be bad tempered!”

     “Well, you _don't_ have the right to take it out on me!”

     Adam growls again, but Belle ignores him. She is tiny under his arm, but strong. Followed by the helpless staff, they make their way up to the West Wing, pausing every now and again for Adam to catch his breath. It is difficult to do; the white hot disquiet that is his constant companion is making Adam hot under the arms and sending fingers of dread down into his stomach. The bites and scratches along his arms and leg sting and burn. Slowly, slowly, they come to the West Wing.

     “Now,” says Belle, depositing him on the side of his long-unused bed, “Take your clothes off.”

     Adam is horrified. “ _No_.”

     Belle glares at him. “Those wounds need tending. I can't do that if you refuse to take off that shroud.”

     “It's not a shroud, it's a banyan! And Chapeau will take care of me.”

     “With respect to Monsieur Chapeau, he does not have hands like mine at the moment. Nor does Monsieur Cogsworth, or Lumiere, or Mrs. Potts. Take it off.”

     “No.”

     “I won't ask again.”

     Adam is not used to being ordered about, certainly not by a peasant girl two feet shorter than himself. He glares at her. Belle glares back. For a moment there is an impasse. The staff watch with bated breath. Then Belle reaches out, and almost before Adam can react, rips the remains of his filthy old banyan off of his shoulders.

     “If you're going to be a baby about it, I'll undress you myself,” she snaps. “I'm not having you die of a wolf bite, even if you are the worst grump I've ever had the misfortune to meet.”

     “I am not a baby!” Adam shouts.

     “You are _acting like a two year old!_ ” Belle shouts back. She seizes hold of his shirt, which Adam hasn't bothered to change in months (what is the point? There is no one to see) and rips it in two. It comes away like paper in her hands. The servants, huddled together at the foot of the bed, gasp. Adam yells. Belle yells back.

     “Lumiere, make her stop!” Adam shouts.

     “Don't you dare,” Belle tells him. “Take off those trousers, they're ruined.”

     “I am _not_ taking my trousers off! _Lumiere!_ ”

     “Master,” his treacherous maitre d' says, “maybe you should listen to her.”

     Cogsworth coughs. “There's a blanket, miss, for modesty's sake.”

     Belle and Adam face off. Without his shirt, his bleeding wounds are very obvious. They're beginning to throb, blood matting on his fur, and Adam wants to cry from the pain and humiliation. For a moment he absolutely hates Belle, and his staff, and the enchantress for damning them all and making Belle's presence a necessity. But common sense wins out over Adam's offended pride. His wounds need tending. He struggles under the blankets and out of his tattered old breeches.

     “Are you happy now?”

     Belle has turned and is wetting a cloth in a basin, filled with steaming hot water by Mrs. Potts. Chapeau has brought medicines into the room; Belle takes a pot of salt and dumps it into the water.

     “I'll be happy when you are lying on your side with your injured leg out from under the blanket. Chapeau, can you please bring me some bandages? And if you have any honey, please bring it to me.”

     “ _Honey_?” bellows Adam. “What am I, a cake?”

     “It'll help keep the wounds from festering!” Belle bawls. “Which, if they do, will in fact kill you. And I shall put 'Wouldn't take his medicine' on your headstone!”

     She takes up the soaked cloth, wrings it out, and begins to wash the blood off of his leg. Adam yells as the salt water stings him. Belle's hands are firm; she does not let him writhe away, but holds his leg tight and works to clean the gashes. She presses down on the sides of the wound until the blood begins to flow again, cleaning it away with a succession of cloths. Adam feels like his leg has been dipped in oil and set on fire. He yells again, but Belle, ignoring him, finishes her ministrations and begins to spread honey on the wound, and wraps it in a clean bandage.

     “There, almost done,” she says. Adam glares at her.

     “What, is my arm going to escape your tender ministrations?” he says.

     Belle picks a new clothe out of Mrs. Pott's basin and twists it with a vengeance. “Not at all. Roll over.”

     She cleans his wounds with those firm strong hands, and Adam tries to hold back the cries that fill his throat. Belle has almost finished cleaning the scratches on his shoulder and is patting powdered willow bark into them when it becomes too much, and he twists away, shouting.

     “ _That hurts!_ ” he roars.

     “If you'd hold still it wouldn't hurt as much!” Belle roars back.

     Adam huffs at her. “If you hadn't run away none of this would've happened!”

     Belle is not about to take that, he can see it in her eyes. “Well if you hadn't frightened me, I wouldn't have run away!”

     Adam is nonplussed. Worse is the fact that he knows that she is right. “Well, you shouldn't have been in the West Wing,” he snaps, trying to regain some lost ground.

     “Well _you_ should learn to control your temper!”

     Adam snarls and turns his back on her. Impossible female. Why is he beset with impossible females? Belle, behind him, is silent for a long moment. Then, in a softer voice, she tells him to try to get some rest. He can put a shirt on in the morning; for now he should let his shoulder air. Adam doesn't respond. He lays there, spent. What an awful, awful day. Behind him, he hears Mrs. Potts and Lumiere thank Belle for helping him. It shames Adam that he cannot say it himself, but the words freeze in his throat. He cannot remember the last time he thanked someone.

     “Why do you care about him so much?” Belle asks, not bothering to lower her voice.

     Ouch. Adam closes his eyes. Is he really so vile that she doesn't care to keep from insulting him almost to his face?

     Mrs. Potts begins to explain, and Belle continues to question, and Adam listens to them discussing him as though he isn't there. Which he supposes he isn't, not really. He has held himself aloof and untouchable for years. They leave him at last, and Adam gives himself over to memory, trying to sleep. Somewhere below, he can hear Chapeau playing his violin. The melody is the lullaby that Adam's mother used to sing him. Adam sighs. Those were gentler times. He misses her with a fierceness that scares him. He misses her warm hands holding his and comforting him, her smile, the way she would read to him whenever he was sick in bed. He knows that his father believed she had caught her final illness from Adam. He closes his eyes against the memory and finally drifts into an uneasy sleep.

     When he opens his eyes again, Belle is there. It is late, still dark out, and the girl is settled in an armchair beside the bed, a blanket around her shoulders. She stirs when she sees him awake.

     “How are you?”

     Adam considers. His wounds throb, but he does not feel feverish.

     “That's good,” Belle says. “Have some water.”

     She helps him sit upright and gives him a water jug. Adam want to make some quip about being able to drink from a glass, but is too tired to make it sound anything but petulant. He drinks, and lies down again.

     “I think you'll live,” Belle says.

     Adam snorts. “Yay.”

     Belle settles down in her chair again. “Come now, it's not that bad. You've not got a fever, which means we got the infection out in time.” When he doesn't answer, she falls silent, looking at him. Adam writhes a little under her examination. At last, she speaks again.

     “That's you in the portrait over there, isn't it? Mrs. Potts said as much. She said that deep inside, you're a prince of a fellow.”

      Adam looks at her. “And you believe her?”

     Belle raises her eyebrows. “I believe that you are cursed. The rest of it? You'll have to prove it to me.”

     Adam looks away. Prove it. He isn't a prince, he's a creature. How can he prove anything?

     “Anyway,” Belle continues. “I bet that you're not really so bad as you make yourself out to be. Anyone who lives in such a beautiful place can't be all bad.”

     “No?”

     Belle frowns at his tone. “If what Mrs. Potts said about your father is true, and I have no reason to doubt her, than you have reason to be angry. I would be, if I were you. But you don't have to be, you know. You can forgive and let it go. Goodness is a choice that we make every day.”

     Adam stares at her. A choice. Her words at the gates, _saying thank you is not a moral failing_ , come back to him. He had never thought of it like that.

     “Think about it,” Belle says, settling back into her blanket. “I'll stay here tonight. Go back to sleep, now.”

     A choice. Adam closes his eyes. They are at a crossroads, he and this strange girl. Who knows where the morning will find them?

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note: Hello you lovelies! I'm woefully behind on the challenge, but I've been travelling in Scotland and things have been busy. I'm going back to Oxford tomorrow and hopefully will be caught up soon. Fingers crossed!

This chapter was surprisingly hard to write! I find banter quite easy, but I'm not as good at writing two people fighting. One thing I really liked in the movie was how the post-wolf fight scene was a changing point for Belle and Beast's relationship, and I think Words Were Said beyond what we see in the movie. I hope you all like this scene. Please let me know what you think in the comments! And thank you again for reading!

 


	21. Dance

 

 

     Belle opens her eyes to bright sunlight and quiet breathing from the bed next to her. For a moment she is confused- _why am I in a chair?_ -and then she remembers. The Beast. The trade she had made for her father's life. Her flight from the cursed castle and the attack by the wolves. How the Beast had saved her, and she had saved him in return. How they had shouted at each other as she dressed his wounds.

     Oh, dear.

     Belle straightens, brushing tangled hair from her eyes. Her back creaks, and she sighs. The Beast is asleep, stretched out on his back. Well, hopefully his wounds aren't hurting him. Belle stands and bends over him: he is not feverish. Just as well. If he were running a fever she would be obliged to go for the doctor in town, and she is not sure how that would go over with the fine citizens of Villeneuve. _Yes, there's this castle in the woods, and I need you to come look at its monstrous master because he was nearly eaten by wolves while saving my life_. Belle grins in spite of herself. She can only imagine how well that would go over.

     There is a soft sound behind her, as of a door opening. Belle turns to see the hatstand, Chapeau, and Plumette the flying feather duster coming into the room. Chapeau's arms are laden with fabric.

     “Good morning, mademoiselle,” Plumette whispers. “We have brought you some clothes, and Mrs. Potts will be along soon with your breakfast.”

     “Thank you,” Belle says. She nods at the Beast. “He's doing better this morning.”

     Plumette flies over to look. “Good, I am glad. He has never been one for pain. I hope you are not too offended by him, mademoiselle.”

     Belle hesitates. She doesn't know what to feel towards the Beast. Exasperation and curiosity are her dominant emotions.

     “I don't know why he came after me,” she says at last.

     Plumette swishes her feathers. “There were wolves,” she says simply. “And he is a creature, not a monster. He would not have been able to live with himself if he had let you die.”

     Really? Belle looks at the sleeping Beast again. In repose his features are softened, less angry. She can see the pain he is in from the way his eyebrows are drawn together, but there is nothing strange about that. She remembers the wolves, shivers, and takes the bundle from Chapeau to hide it.

     “There is a washroom through here,” Plumette says, flitting towards a doorway that Belle has noticed last night. Belle follows. At the door she looks back and sees Chapeau bending over the Beast, one knobby hand touching his wrist.

     “You really do care about him, don't you?” she says to Plumette.

     “Oui, mademoiselle,” Plumette says. “He has had a hard life, for all one lived in luxury. His mother died and everything went terrible for him.”

     Belle's heart twists a little at that. “He's awfully petulant.”

Plumette laughs, flying ahead of Belle into the dressing room. “Yes, and so dramatic, no? He wanted his father's love desperately, and his father would not give it, and that made him worse than ever. He has the, how do you say? The panic. The one that makes it impossible to breath. I think he chose not to think about how awful he was in order to keep breathing.”

     “Anxiety.”

     “Yes. Then the Enchantress came, and now he does not breath at all, and it makes him impossible. Here we are. Shall I run you a bath?”

     Belle hesitates in the washroom doorway. She wants to bathe, and she wants to keep Plumette talking, to find out more about the Beast. Belle has never had a lady's maid, and is not aware that they are trained to stay with their lady all through her bath. Nor does she realize that Plumette could talk about the Beast for days, and is under strict orders from Cogsworth not to spill too many secrets. (Not that she intends to listen.) Plumette solves the problem by swishing down over the taps. Warm water beings to pour into a basin. Belle makes a mental note to find out how this works later. The maid swishes her feathers into the water, laughs, and flies to the window.

     “I very much enjoyed watching you shout at him last night,” she says to Belle. “It is very good for him.”

     Belle, undressing, makes a face. “He was acting like a baby.”

     Plumette laughs again. “Yes, but also that you were undressing him. He is not used to being so coldly divested of his garments, our Ad-the master. He was discomfited.”

     “I suppose I could've been kinder. I was...scared. And angry.”

     That's it. Belle washes her face and hands, runs a wet cloth over her body, and considers. She had been upset yesterday, curious and angry and defiant. Then he had been so churlish about being taken home that she had not given any thought to anything but her own outrage. She remembers now their late night conversation, when she gave him water. _Goodness is a choice we make every day_. Belle wonders what choice the Beast will make today.

     When she is dressed, Belle returns to the Beast's bedchamber. Sunlight is pouring down on the bed and thought the staff tiptoe about, setting out breakfast and whispering together, she can see that he is awake. She goes to him (someone has put him into a shirt) and puts her hand on his brow. No fever. Good. For a moment their eyes meet. The Beast doesn't quite smile at her, but the look on his face is neither angry nor embarrassed. Belle pats his arm and rolls off of the bed.

     “What happens when the last petal falls?”

     She is horrified by their answer and wants to help them. There _is_ a way, Cogsworth gets as far as admitting it before Lumiere shuts him up. Belle sits at the foot of the bed and looks across at the rose. What cruelty. A petal falls; the castle shakes. No wonder he screamed at her last night, when she made to touch the glass. One jostle and she could have doomed them all forever. Belle shivers and looks over her shoulder at the Beast. His eyes are open, and there is such sorrow in them that it takes her breath away.

     “Are you hungry?” she asks. “There's breakfast here.”

     The Beast looks over at her. “No. Thank you.”

     “I'll eat, anyway.”

     Belle helps herself and returns to her bedside chair. Someone, probably Chapeau, has tidied the blankets away, and Belle is able to sit and balance her plate of croissants on her lap. The Beast closes his eyes; perhaps he is sleeping again. Belle drinks a strong coffee and sets her empty plate and cup onto Mrs. Potts's trolley. Soon they are alone.

     Boredom begins to set in as the Beast dozes. Belle supposes that she doesn't really need to stay here, but what else is there to do? She hasn't any projects, and the book she had borrowed from Père Robert is still at home in Villeneuve, resting on her bedside table. Thoughts of books and projects lead naturally to thoughts of Maurice. How is he? Where is he? Is he safe? To distract herself from her growing worry about him, Belle begins to recite verse. She knows a handful of poems and monologues; these spill from her tongue as she sits playing with her hair. The last of them is Helene's monologue from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , which Père Robert had waxed lyrical on. (“It is the most Godly love possible, to love someone not for what they look like, but who they are inside,” the priest had insisted. Belle is young, and still unsure as to the truth of this. She rather thinks decent looks could help.) _Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind. And therefore_ -

     “'And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.'”

     Belle looks up, surprised. The Beast regards her with wary eyes, as though daring her to mock him.

     “You know Shakespeare?”

     “I had an expensive education.” It is a gruff admission, but not a rude one. He _likes_ Shakespeare, she realizes, and this is his way of reaching out. Carefully, she meets him halfway.

     “Actually, _Romeo and Juliet_ is my favorite play.”

     The Beast leans back on his pillows with a rueful groan. “Why isn't that a surprise?”

     “I'm sorry?” Maybe she was wrong about him.

     “Well, the heartache, and pining, and ugh.” He gives an elaborate shudder. “There are so many better things to read.”

     Belle does not mean to sound as exasperated as she does. “Like what?”

     The look he gives her is curious, unreadable. He pulls himself upright and begins to swing his legs out of the bed. Belle leaps to her feet.

     “What are you doing?”

     “Looking for trousers,” the Beast replies. “There should be some in that bureau there. Will you...?”

     It is not the answer she wanted, and she doesn't think he should be out of bed so soon, but Belle doesn't want another fight, and fetches out a pair of clean blue breeches from the bureau. She presents them to him and turns her back, rightly guessing that he is not about to let her help him dress. It is cold in the room, despite the fire, and Belle goes in search of a jacket for him, to replace the shroud she had burned last night. She finds one in a dressing room next to the washroom. It is filled with beautiful men's clothing, and Belle wishes she had had a look while he was still sleeping. But now is not the time, and so she grabs the first large coat to hand and hurries back the Beast.

     He is sitting on the side of the bed, dressed in shirt and breeches, when she returns. He takes the coat with mumbled thanks, and lets her help him put it on. They continue to dance around each other as they leave the West Wing. A door held here, an arm given for balance there. Mumbled thanks, eyes not quite meeting. They walk into the main part of the castle, in the long space between the towers. Belle, wondering where they are going, tells him a little about the books she has read in the past.

     “Père Robert only has a handful of Shakespeare, and those are mostly the tragedies,” she says. “I haven't had the chance I would like to read more widely. Books are rare in Villeneuve.”

     The Beast limps ahead, throwing open a pair of doors. “Well, there are a couple of things in here you could start with.”

     There is a defensiveness in the Beast's voice that she doesn't understand. Belle follows him into the wide space and stops. She feels she might faint. He has taken her to a library, and not just a small personal library. There must be thousands of books in here, arrayed in shelves and bays and galleries. The room stretches wide, really three rooms in one, and is entirely filled with books. Belle wonders if she has actually died and gone to heaven.

     “Are you all right?” the Beast asks, and Belle wonders if he will be able to catch her should she collapse.

     “It's _wonderful_!”

     The Beast looks around, as though he is seeing the library for the first time. “Yes, I suppose it is. Well, if you like it so much, then it's yours.”

     Belle stares at him. For the first time since coming to this place, the Beast's face is open. There is no anger, no resentment, no sorrow in it, but a softness, a shy sort of joy. Joy at her, for her reaction. And Belle realizes in that moment that this is a creature deeply in love with literature, who is so used to being mocked and belittled for it that he has buried his heart behind years of anger and defensiveness. He begins to walk away from her, towards the fire in the south end. Belle calls after him.

     “Have you really read every one of these books?” She asks not to test him, but because she is genuinely curious.

     “What?” The Beast looks around at the shelves, makes a little scoffing noise. “Not all of them. Some of them are in Greek.”

     He looks as surprised by the joke as Belle feels, and moves away quite quickly. Belle lets him settle himself by the fire, and begins to pace the room, a jig in her steps. What a place! The great library of Alexandria couldn't have been better stocked. She squeaks with delight, running her fingers over smooth leather bindings, taking note of the location of poetry, Greek and Latin classics, texts on philosophy and languages and mathematics and music. Belle has never seen anything so wonderous in her life, and she cannot help but laugh, and dance from pleasure.

     The Beast, watching her surreptitiously, smiles to himself. She likes to read. She will never love him, but maybe, maybe, just maybe, they can be friends.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note: This chapter carries on pretty much where the last one left off. Something I love about the new movie is the role books play in Belle and the Beast's relationship. When he sees Belle's reaction to the library, his whole demeanor changes, and I think that says a lot about Adam as a character. I really enjoy playing with it. This chapter is a little rambly, but in my defense I've come down with a rotten cold and am doped up on cold meds. So. As always, thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think in the comments! Comments always make my day.


	22. Routine

Author's Note: I had originally decided to post this alone, but what the hell. Here's a Maurice Stays At The Castle As Prisoner AU. Aka, I wanted to talk more about pictures.

 

 

   Maurice wanders the castle, growing more confident with each passing day. The staff have assured him that as long as he stays out of the West Wing-the master's private quarters-he is free to go anywhere he likes in his new home. Home. Maurice shakes his head whenever he thinks of the word, falling so easily from the lips of the enchanted servants. Whatever this castle is, it is not a home. It is dark and cold and lonely, its grand hallways filled with a despair that is not hard to understand. He has no idea what happened here, but he senses that the Beast is as much a prisoner here as he is.

     If only he hadn't sent Belle away. If only he had never lost his way in the woods. If only they had never come to Villeneuve. If only, if only.

     Belle will be all right. Maurice knows that she is a capable young woman, and she will make her own way. He will never stop missing and worrying about her, but he knows that she is her mother's daughter and that she will survive.

     He has hardly seen the Beast since the monster sent Belle away, and he cannot help but be thankful for that. The rest of the staff are good to him; they have given him a comfortable bedroom, new clothes, excellent food. The cold that set in when Maurice was in the tower is beginning to heal. He asked for drawing materials and received a wealth of fine paper and charcoal pencils, paints and canvases and chalk. Truly, there is nothing Maurice wants for here but his freedom.

     He wanders the corridors now, looking at the paintings on the walls. There is excellent work here, portraits and landscapes and scenes both classical and modern. He recognizes the work of some of his Parisian compatriots, men he worked and drank with back when Paris was bright and the future rosy. There is a picture of a woman on a swing, kicking her shoe off to her lover below. Maurice studies it, remembering Fragonard's earlier works. So they have not been cursed long here, then. Ten years, at the most. Interesting. He wonders, not for the first time, who is responsible for collecting all of the extraordinary artworks that reside in this place.

     There is a portrait gallery in one of the upstairs corridors, filled with pictures of the family that has ruled the castle for generations. Maurice wanders, looking at them, studying the family resemblances. These are the gentlemen of the family, here are their wives, their children, on and on, until finally the portraits run out, ending in a pair of ruined canvases. Maurice stops. What on earth has happened here? The mother has survived (and good thing, too; she was a lovely creature, with a gentle smile and eyes filled with kindness), but the father's face is mangled. It looks like someone ripped through his features, someone with claws and a fierce and burning hatred.

     Maurice goes very cold.

     Why would the Beast do this? Who was this man, who stares down at Maurice with a single cold eye? His face is all but obliterated, but Maurice can see the proud stance, the hands curled into fists. There is a sword on his hip and he is surrounded by dogs; a stag's head hangs on the wall behind him. A hunter, then, and a soldier. A cold man. And he was married to that lovely young lady? Maurice looks at the woman's portrait again, and feels a twist of sadness at the harshness of arranged marriages. Then he moves his attention onto the last portrait. Their child.

     This portrait is slashed, too, though not with the same hatred as the father's. It is as if the Beast (for Maurice has no doubt it was he who did this) couldn't bear to look at this picture long enough to destroy it. The gashes are fairly clean; with care this picture could be salvaged. Maurice studies it with interest.

     The subject is a young man, perhaps twenty-five. He favors his mother, with dark gold hair and blue eyes the color of the summer sky. He is a great beauty, or would be if it weren't for the coldness that he exudes. His gaze is icy, challenging, as though daring the viewer to find him anything but beautiful. He sits with one arm resting on the table before him, his very posture filled with hauteur. And something else, something-

     “What do you think of him?”

     Maurice starts, yanked from his thoughts. In his concentration, he has not noticed the Beast making his way down the gallery, though the Beast himself has taken care not to be too quiet. He stands a few feet away, watching Maurice study the damaged painting.

     “Oh! Forgive me, Lumiere said I could wander-”

     “Yes, it's all right,” the Beast says. He is not wearing that filthy shroud today, Maurice notes, but has washed and dressed in clean clothes. Is he more or less horrifying for dressing like a human man? Maurice is unsure.

     “What do you think of him?” the Beast asks again, nodding towards the portrait. “You have studied him so long.”

     Maurice looks back at the picture. Whoever the artist was, he was a genius for capturing so much emotion. It strikes Maurice suddenly that he has seen those eyes before, that he knows whose picture this is.

     “I think,” he says slowly, “that I would be very worried about this young man, if he were my son.”

     The words ring out into the quiet corridor, and Maurice waits for the Beast's anger. But it does not come. Instead the monster cocks his head, startled. Whatever answer he had been expecting, it wasn't this one.

     “What do you mean?”

     Maurice gestures at the painting. “Look. It has layered nuances, this picture. At first glance we see only this young man's beauty, and that would have pleased him. But look at it longer and you begin to see more. Come.”

     The Beast comes to stand next to Maurice, gazing as the artist points. Maurice puts his fingers to the canvas, pressing the worst of the gashes across the young man's face together. “Look, here, at his face. He is handsome, arrogant. He is blessed with classical beauty, and would be stunning if he smiled. But look at the eyebrows-what do you see?”

     The Beast shakes his head. Maurice taps the canvas. “He is afraid, this young man. Anxious is the better word, maybe. See how his eyebrows are set? There's a defiance there. He is waiting for an attack, this one. You can see the challenge in the way he holds his features. I would say that someone close to him was extremely critical of him, so much so that he hid his fear behind a mask of arrogance, and became exactly like that person so as to try to appease them.”

     Maurice falls silent, wondering if he has said too much. The Beast does not speak, but stares at the picture. “You can tell all that from a painting?” the creature says at last.

     “An artist is trained to see every nuance the body has to offer,” Maurice replies. “I would very much like to know who the artist was.”

     “He was an Englishman, Joshua somebody. Came to France, did a few paintings, left again. He was immensely talented.”

     So it _is_ the Beast's own picture. Maurice looks at his erstwhile captor, suddenly pitying him. For the first time, he is not afraid of the Beast.

     “What happened here?”

     The Beast looks at him. He is not angry, but seems rather hesitant. “What if I told you that the young man in the portrait _was_ afraid, of so many things? What if I told you that his mother died when he was young, and that he was never good enough for his father, who called him all sorts of names and accused him of weakness and a multitude of other sins? And he tried and tried to please the old man, to make him love him, and never succeeded. And so he became cold and cruel and, and _twisted_ , until he was so full of fear and anger and hurt that he cared for nothing and no one but himself, because it was safer?”

     “I would say it is small wonder that he became so, if he was raised without love,” Maurice says. He hesitates, then adds, “It's your picture, isn't it?”

     “Yes.” The Beast looks down at his paws, ashamed. “I was cruel to an enchantress. She damned me for it. She offered me a rose in return for shelter, and I mocked her and sent her away. She said I needed to learn a lesson and that I could look forever as I was on the inside.”

     Maurice whistles. “I know some villagers she ought to visit,” he remarks, and the Beast gives him a shy smile.

     “It's cold here,” he says abruptly, “and you are not yet well. Let's go downstairs; Mrs. Potts can bring tea.”

     Maurice is surprised, but follows the Beast out of the gallery, down the stairs to the little drawing room. If the staff are surprised to see them together, they make no sign of it, and Mrs. Potts does indeed provide them with tea, and toast and little cakes. They eat and drink quietly, and Maurice reflects on the Beast's words.

     “That will be your father, then, in the other ruined portrait?” he says at last.

     The Beast gives a hollow smile. “Is it that obvious?”

     “You must have hated him.”

     “Yes,” the Beast says. “I was scared to death of him. He always had quick fists and a raging temper.”

     Maurice studies the Beast, who does not quite meet his eye. He is beginning to understand, now, and wants to learn more, but he knows too how difficult it can be to talk about the past. “Fear is a terrible thing to live with,” he says, and the Beast nods.

     “Yes. I've made you fear, and I regret it. I am...not used to kindness.” He raises his eyes and looks at Maurice. “You can go. Home, I mean. Back to your daughter. For...for helping me to see.”

     Maurice stares. The words hang in the air between them; there is no anger in the Beast's voice, only a quiet despair. He thinks of the young man in the painting, and how different he would look if he were happy. And he understands for the first time that he can help.

     “Thank you, but I think I will stay a bit longer,” he says. “As you said, I am not quite well yet. Would you like some more tea?”

     The Beast stares at him. Maurice helps himself to more tea and toast, and turns the subject to art in general. The next day, he begins to teach the Beast to draw.

*

     It is strange to have someone in the castle who is neither a staff member nor a prisoner. The Beast (for he will not allow himself to have a name) is mystified by the old artist, Maurice, and cannot imagine why he has chosen to stay. But he finds that he is grateful to have the man there. Maurice's fear has vanished. In its place is a warmth and kindness that the Beast has not experienced since his mother died, many years ago now. It makes the Beast want to get up in the morning, to see him. Maurice teaches him to draw, showing him how to hold the pencils in his clumsy paws, never speaking a harsh word. Drawing soothes the Beast, allowing him to breathe regularly. And as they draw, they talk. Maurice tells the Beast of his life and travels, and how he and his daughter came to be in Villeneuve, and the places they had lived before. Paris, Versailles, Rouen, Toulouse. Adam tells him about his childhood, about his English mother, his tutors, the books he loves to read. They talk and talk, and the Beast's heart begins to thaw under Maurice's genuine interest. Shyly, the Beast opens up more and more to his former captive.

     “What is your name?” Maurice asks him one afternoon, as they sit in the library together, looking through books on the history of art.

     The Beast hesitates. “I haven't let myself have a name in years.”

     “Yes, I noticed that the staff only calls you 'the master', like some villain in a gothic novel.” Maurice smiles. “You needn't tell me if you really don't want to, but I would very much like to know it.”

     “I'm a creature. Can creatures have names?”

     “Certainly. Have you never named a horse or a dog? You may be a creature, but you are also a man under a curse. You are allowed to have a name,” Maurice says.

     The Beast's breath catches in his throat. He realizes all of a sudden that he loves this old man dearly. _I wish_ _ **he**_ _were my father_. He clears his throat. “I was called Adam. I am Adam.”

     Maurice smiles. “A strong name. It means 'man', you know.”

     Adam's breath catches again. “It does?”

     “Yes,” Maurice replies. “I'm sure there is a Hebrew grammar somewhere in this library, if you don't believe me.”

     “I believe you,” Adam replies. He feels as though he has been given a gift.

     Maurice's cold goes, and yet he does not leave. Weeks pass, and he continues to stay with Adam, bringing light and laughter and kindness to the castle. Maurice is the father that Adam never had and always longed for. He finds he does not resent the curse as much, now that he has a friend. There is only one thing that keeps Adam's happiness from being complete, and that is the man's daughter. Adam cannot help but feel a stab of guilt whenever he thinks of her.

     “Why do you not return to your daughter?” he asks Maurice one afternoon.

     They are sitting in the West Wing balcony, where Maurice has been using the turrets to teach Adam perspective. Maurice looks up from his sketching and gives Adam a small smile.

     “Do you not know?” When Adam shakes his head, Maurice continues. “Belle does not need me as much as you do. I made the choice to stay weeks ago, that day when you said I could leave. I could see your fear and self-loathing, Adam, and I couldn't let it continue to consume you. Your father may have twisted you up, but you were beginning to find your way out of it. You just needed a little outside help.”

     Adam stares. Maurice gives a little chuckle. “Besides, I always wanted to have a son. And now I do. Because you _are_ my son, Adam, whatever you look like, and I love you for it.”

     Adam can't speak for the tears that fill his throat. Then there is a flash of gold light, and a ringing that sounds like music in his ears, and Maurice jumps back in shock as Adam ripples and changes. For a moment all is confusion, and then Adam is standing on his own human feet, his human hands holding a pencil and sketchbook, his heart racing. He looks up at Maurice, thunderstruck. The curse is broken.

     “Oh,” Adam says, and flings himself into Maurice's arms, sobbing. The older man catches him and holds him close.

     “It's all right, Adam,” Maurice murmurs. “It's all right, my son. You're all right.”

     Adam has never been held like this, by a father, has never felt a father's love, and yet he knows in that moment that everything will be all right.

 

 

Author's Note, Part Two: Congrats on reading this far! Please let me know what you think, and know that we'll be back to our regular non-AU prompts tomorrow.


	23. Lies

     'He's weak, I'm afraid. A lamentable trait in a prince, but one inherited from the mother. Beat him as much as he needs. He must learn strength.”

     Adam, eleven years old, listens to his father and new tutor talk about him. They do not so much as glance his way. _Weak_.

     He believes them.

 

     “Stupid boy! No one respects a man who interacts with his servants. If you can't stop talking to that valet I'll have him sent away. Don't be so soft.”

     Adam, thirteen, bows to his father, shame coursing through him. _Soft_. He never laughs at Lumiere's jokes again.

 

     “Really, your highness, if you can't understand the nominative declension in Latin, you have no hope of understanding it in Greek! You don't want people to think you're stupid, do you? Come, come, try again.”

 _Stupid_. Adam bends over the Latin grammar, but he never does learn it well enough to progress to Greek.

 

     “You bloody prude. You're nearly seventeen and you haven't been with a woman? I'm ashamed of you. No man should be a virgin when he weds.”

 _Prude_. Adam finds a girl in his bed on the night of his seventeenth birthday. He does not send her away.

 

     “The way you are, no one will ever love you.”

     The words are like bullets to his heart. Adam will never be enough for his father. But he will try until it ruins him.

 

_Cold, cruel, unloving, heartless. Beastly._

     Adam kneels before an Enchantress. He tries to apologize, but the words will not come. She damns them all.

*

     “Her? That's Belle. She's a bit...different. She wanted to enroll in the school, but the Headmaster wouldn't let her.”

 _Different_. Belle makes herself stand straight. Yes, she is different. She will not bend to their criticism.

 

     “Look there she goes, that girl is so peculiar.”

     Belle ignores the trio of men standing near the church. _Peculiar_. Well, why not. Better than being ordinary.

 

     “Dazed and distracted, can't you tell?”

     She wants to laugh at that. So she doesn't focus on the same things they do. Dazed and distracted, indeed. They don't realize how much her supposed distraction contributes to her and Maurice's decent finances. At least she has her imagination and can fly away from here whenever she wishes.

 

     “Oh, Belle. Don't you know what happens in this village to a spinster when her father dies? She ends up begging on the streets like poor Agathe.”

     Belle shuts the door in Gaston's face. She may end up a spinster lady, but she will not let this village ruin her spirit. Adventure is out there. She is sure of it. She will not let their lies twist her soul up.

     But if only they didn't hurt her so much.

 

 

 Author's Note: I started writing this two days ago, actually, but the scene that I was working on got so convoluted that I lost the plot and gave it up for the time being. I'm sure I'll post it eventually, when I can think it over more slowly. I hope you like this! Two people being fed lies, and two very different reactions. Please let me know what you think in the comments!

 

 

 


	24. Game

     Belle pauses in her reading and looks down the long table at the Beast. He is engrossed in his own book, absently nibbling on a cheese roll. She clears her throat; he looks up.

     “Could you enlighten me?”

     “On what?”

     “A word,” Belle says, having decided not to be embarrassed by her lack of knowledge. The Beast gives her a polite nod. “What does _brouhaha_ mean?”

     “A hilarious drink,” the Beast says, not missing a beat.

     Belle looks down at the page. “I...don't think-”

     “I'm sorry, that was rude of me,” the Beast says. She realizes that he is grinning. “Brouhaha means a noisy or overexcited reaction to something.”

     “I thought it might,” Belle replies. “What was that you said before? A hilarious drink?”

     The Beast gives her a sheepish grin. “It was a game we used to play, before. You take a word and give it a different definition.”

     Belle is silent a moment, thinking. Then, “Brouhaha-oh! I see!” And she begins to laugh. “That's terrible. I love it. Do you know anymore?”

     The Beast closes his book. “Well, there's dialogue-an awful piece of wood. And dependable-a competent swimmer.”

     Belle starts to laugh. “Those are excellent. Let me try!” She thinks for a minute, then, “Catastrophe-my moggy has won a prize.”

     The Beast laughs. “That's good! You've got it. Try another.”

     This time Belle is prepared. “Handicap-a very useful hat.”

     “Tomahawk-a vegetable of prey,” the Beast says, grinning.

     Belle is laughing. “Example-much thinner.”

     “Much thin-oh!” The Beast roars with laughter. “Gladiator-an unrepentant cannibal.”

     “Oh, my _God_!” Belle sits back in her chair, dinner forgotten, howling with laughter. She wipes her eyes. “Dipthong-to wash an undergarment!”

     It's naughtiness makes the Beast squawk with laughter. “Protein-in favor of adolescence.”

     “Canteloupe- unable to run away and get married!”

     “Evanescence-a luminous Welshman!”

     Belle screams and claps her hands. “Bratwurst-the naughtiest of children!”

     This is too much, and both Belle and Beast fall about themselves, howling with laughter. (They do not realize that the staff is standing frozen in the kitchen, listening in disbelief.) After a few moments, the Beast manages to wheeze out, “Gregorian-someone unsure of his name.”

     “Gregor-oh, _no_!” Belle is crying from laughter. “Rectitude-the angle at which a thermometer should be inserted.”

     The Beast, who has reached for his wineglass, inhales the liquid and doubles over, wheezing. Belle half rises in worry, but he waves a paw at her. “Wal-Wallaby,” he wheezes, “someone aspiring to be a kangeroo!”

     “Goblet,” Belle gasps after she's stopped laughing. “A very small mouth.”

     “Pendulous-when you put a pen under something and it stays there.”

     “Negligent-a man who wears lingerie.”

     “What? Oh, negli-GENT! That's terrible!”

     Belle claps her hands, cackling. “I _know_! How about grandstand-a shelf designed to display your nana.”

     The Beast groans, laughing. “I might have known that you would be good at this game. Oh, dear,” he wheezes, putting a hand on his side.

     Belle wipes her eyes, grinning. “It's a good one. I think I need to write some of those down.” She gives him a mischievous look. “Do you know any other games?”

     The Beast grins a little. “Like that? Many. Most of them are based around coming up with terrible puns.”

     Belle grins back at him. “It's lucky that we are both word people, then, isn't it?”

     The Beast grins back. “Indeed.”

     Maybe they won't be reading as much at table in the future.

 

 

Author's Note: I cannot take credit for any of these; all of the but cantaloupe came from various series of the British radio show "I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue". Cantaloupe's alternative definition came from my friend Soubrettina, who is one of the funniest people I know. Please let me know what you think in the comments!

 

 

 


	25. Family

 

     Belle sits before the fire in the little drawing room, staring into the flames. It is late, or perhaps very early, but she cannot sleep. She cannot get the little dusty room in Paris out of her mind, or the doctor's mask in the Beast's hand. _Plague_. Her mother died of plague. The horror of it makes Belle cold. To be left to die is bad enough, but she cannot imagine what her father endured, leaving Maman there alone.

     How did he live with himself for it? Belle does not blame him. There is no cure for the plague; her mother would have died no matter what. Belle's heart goes out to her father. Maurice is the kindest, gentlest man she knows, and has always carried sorrow in his heart. But he has never let it make him bitter. His fear and sadness makes sense to her now. Belle has always suspected that something terrible happened to her mother. She just never imagined what.

     She shifts in front of the fire. It's a little one, stirred up from the coals; the staff are abed and there are no logs left to add to it. Belle doesn't really mind, though the cold is beginning to get to her. She wonders what time it is, and if it would be appropriate for her to sneak to the kitchens for a snack. At the same time, she wonders how she could be thinking about eating when she has just learned how her mother died. Belle sighs, gustily. And jumps, as the door creaks open.

     “Is someone there?” the Beast sounds guarded, as though expecting an intruder.

     “Just me,” Belle says, leaning around her chair. “Are you still up?”

     “Yes,” the Beast says. He stands hesitating in the doorway. “I usually don't sleep early. Forgive me, I didn't realize you were using this room.”

     “I'm hardly using it,” Belle says. “I was just...thinking. Join me?”

     The Beast steps forward. She sees that he has removed his coat and wrapped himself in a velvet banyan, like a homely philosopher. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

     Belle feels obscurely sheepish. She had disappeared on him after their return from Paris, preferring her own company in the face of what she had learned. She had even skipped dinner, eating in her room instead. Chapeau had brought her a vase of white roses around bedtime, but mostly everyone had left her alone. She senses that the Beast will leave her now, if she asks him to.

     It's strange, but she does not want to be alone anymore. She wants him to stay with her.

     “I'm just thinking of my father,” she says. “He's always carried this secret sorrow. He could never tell me what happened to maman. I don't think he ever forgave himself for leaving her there, not really.”

     “He had to,” the Beast says, sitting down in a nearby chair. “He had to protect you.”

     Belle looks at her hands. “He's always protected me. But I think a part of him died with her. He's never really been able to let her go. You should see our home; it's full of images of her.”

     The Beast smiles a little. “She must have been wonderful.”

     “Yes,” Belle says. “I've always wished I knew her. I was just a baby when she died, you see. It's always been Papa and me, and I never really minded, but I always wished...”

     “It is hard to replace a mother's love,” the Beast replies. “Even when your father loves you dearly.”

     They fall silent, looking into the fire. Belle rubs her arms and shivers. The Beast, seeing, shifts, and hands her the velvet banyan.

     “Here. It's cold; you need this more than I.”

     “Thank you.” Belle takes it and wraps it around herself. It dwarfs her slight frame, but it is warm from his body. It feels bizarrely intimate to be wearing his clothes. To cover her slight embarrassment, she speaks again. “You speak of grief with familiarity.”

     “Yes, well, I lost my mother when I was ten,” the Beast replies. In reply to her questioning look, he adds, “It was a fever. I had it first and she nursed me back to health, only to fall ill herself some weeks later. My father did not grieve overmuch-I don't think he ever really loved her-but I was devastated.”

     “Oh, I'm so sorry,” Belle breathes. She cannot imagine his pain. “Did you blame yourself?”

     The Beast looks surprised at her question. “Yes, of course. Wouldn't you, if your parent had contracted their final illness from you?”

     The words smack Belle somewhere in the solar plexis; for a moment she cannot breathe. “I'm sure it wasn't your fault. Illness is contagious-”

     “I know that now,” the Beast's voice is bitter. “I did not know it then, and my father did very little to disabuse me of the notion.”

     Belle reaches out and takes his hand. “I'm so sorry.”

     The Beast stares at her hand, tiny in his. “Forgive me, I should be the one comforting you.” He clears his throat, but does not release her hand. Belle smiles a little.

     “It's all right.”

     For a while they sit in silence in the dying firelight. It is nice to sit like this, Belle thinks, with the Beast's hand in hers. Comforting. He has changed so much from the monster he was that first day, or rather, she understands him now. How horrible it must have been to be alone, denied the parental love he so desperately craved, denied all affection. No wonder he became so bitter and mean and awful. She remembers his words in the little attic. _I'm sorry that I ever called your father a thief_. Belle shifts in her chair.

     “I...keep thinking about Papa. How he must have felt leaving her,” she says. “I think part of him never left that room.”

     She thinks of the drawings and sketches and paintings that have filled their various homes over the course of her lifetime. All of the little attic, of her mother holding Belle as a baby. She wants to cry.

     “Belle,” the Beast says. “Do not blame him. He chose to save you. He chose to live. I remember that sickness. We didn't go up to Paris that year in order not to catch it. Plumette's family all died in it; she came to us shortly after. The choices we make during plague times must never be held against us. Your father loves you, and he wanted to keep you safe.”

     Belle looks up at him through her tears. “I know. It's just so sad.”

     The Beast squeezes her hand and lets it go. “You should go to bed. Sleep helps, I have found.”

     “I know. And it's late.” Belle stands, the velvet banyan gathering in folds around her feet. “What...what was your mother's name?”

     “Maria-Eleanor,” the Beast says after a moment. “She was English. And your mother?”

     “Marianne,” Belle says. For a moment they smile at each other. Then, “Good night, and thank you. For showing me.”

     “You're welcome,” the Beast says. “Thank _you_ , for helping me to realize that not all fathers are awful.”

     Belle smiles at this, and slips out of the room. Her heart aches for her parents, and now for this poor Beast. How terrible to lose your loved ones. How terrible to be denied a family.

     Where will they go from here?

 

 

 

Author's Note: Sorry for the late update! It's funny how being on vacation demands one's attention. I'm not sure this chapter turned out exactly right; I did rush writing it a bit. I hope you all like it. Please let me know what you think in the comments!

 

 


	26. Mirrors

 

     The castle frightened Belle at first, but over the past two days she has grown used to it. It is livelier now that she has begun to clean it, giving the servants their first real job in years. Oh, they kept the rooms that were in use tidy, but the rooms that were closed off, not so much. Belle is a tidy soul, and it shocks her that so much beauty has gone to seed. While the Beast recuperates from his wolf bites, she talks with Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts about the cleaning of the castle.

     “We can start with his room,” she says.

     “There's nothing wrong with my room,” the Beast says from his place before the library fire. He sounds a little defensive.

     Belle, disinclined to fight with him, tries to be reasonable. “You've been sleeping in a nest on the floor.”

     “So?”

     “So people don't do that.”

     “It may have escaped your notice,” the Beast says in some exasperation, “But I am not a person.”

     Belle eyes him, sitting there in moth-eaten clothing. He squirms a little. “You were born a person, you'll die a person,” she says at last. “It has not escaped my notice, as you say, that you are under a curse. So the nest goes.”

     He grumbles a bit at that, but lets it go. Belle is glad. She has a suspicion that he will relax more once he has begun to act more human. And to act human, he must live like one. Ergo, the castle must be cleaned.

      Belle knows that she is lucky; she has the servants on her side. She does not know why, precisely, they jump to fulfill her every whim, but so long as it means the house being cleaned, she does not mind it. In between reading in the library and walking the grounds, Belle oversees the work, pitching in wherever necessary. The windows are scrubbed and polished. The dust of many years is swept away. The Beast follows her around the castle in a kind of helpless fascination, watching as the twilight world they have lived in for so many years is restored to a semblance of order and beauty.

     Some things cannot be changed, however. Belle noticed the mirrors that first evening, when she sneaked into the West Wing against all wisdom. It seems that every mirror in the place is shattered. Indeed, there are two in the Beast's bedroom, on either side of the bed, that look as though he ran into them headfirst. There are other mirrors in the castle, in the little drawing room and the dining room; these too have been destroyed. Belle stands over them, looking at the wooden backs to which a few jagged shards cling. The Beast is already at the table; he watches her examining the broken mirrors with something akin to trepidation.

     “Why are these all shattered?” she asks at last.

     “Guess,” the Beast replies.

     Belle raises an eyebrow at him. “You couldn't turn them to face the wall?”

     “Er. No.”

     “It's just that mirrors are expensive. One of these could have fed Villeneuve for a year, you know. It seems...wasteful.”

     The Beast squirms and glowers. “I can't say I was concerned with the cost when I broke them.”

     Belle shrugs and sits. “Never mind. What's done is done.”

     She helps herself to soup and rolls, letting the silence stretch between them. She knows him well enough by now to know that he will soon break it.

     “I couldn't...I couldn't bear to have them around me after the-after. I couldn't bear to see myself in them.” He is glaring at the soup tureen before him. “I am hideous. I don't want to see myself.”

     Belle breaks a roll into bits and drops each pill into her soup. “It must have been a shock.”

     The Beast snorts. “You don't say.”

     “Still,” she says, taking up a spoon. “I don't think you're so hideous.”

     Silence. Belle sips her soup and looks up at the Beast. He looks bewildered.

     “You can't mean that,” he says at last. “You recoiled the first time you saw me.”

     “And so would you have, had someone wearing a filthy old cloak and skulking in the shadows like a vampire had suddenly got into your face,” Belle replies. “I was startled. If I'd been horrified I would have reacted much differently.”

     “How?”

     “Well, I might have bashed you with the candlestick or pushed you over the edge of the stairs. It seemed better to negotiate with you, and that's what I did.”

     “Ah.”

     “Tell me, why _did_ you wear all those rags when you have a perfectly serviceable wardrobe?”

     It is hard to tell, but she thinks he could be blushing. “I am a creature. It...didn't seem worth the trouble.”

     “And what about that dressing room full of fine clothing I found upstairs?”

     “You found that?”

     “Yes, I was looking for a washroom that night the wolves attacked you. You haven't answered my question.”

     The Beast looks at his wine glass. “I used to love fashion,” he says at last. “It was...an approved means of self-expression. After we were cursed, there didn't seem to be much of a point.”

     Belle considers this. She remembers asking Maurice once, when she was a teenager, what the point of taking care of her looks was when no one cared. _Because if we let ourselves go, we are letting grief win_ , he had said. She wonders if she ought to tell this to the Beast. Well, why not?

     “My father says that one ought to be neat and presentable as often as possible, less for those around us and more for our own morale,” she says.

     “Well, my own morale has not been very high of late,” the Beast replies. He does not sound defensive, merely resigned.

     “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you're not nearly as hideous as you seem to think,” Belle tells him. Finished with her soup, she begins to rise. “I'm going to take a walk before going up to the library. Care to join me later?”

     The Beast, who is looking nonplussed, nods. “Yes, I-I'll see you there.”

     Belle smiles and leaves the dining room. Shortly thereafter, Adam rises and strides up to his chambers, where the only large mirror left in the main castle resides. It is the mirror at his vanity, where once Plumette did his hair and make-up before parties, and which Chapeau turned to face the wall before Adam could get at it. Out of sight, out of mind. He turns it around now, laboriously, for it is very large and ornate. There. Adam leans on the long-neglected vanity and looks at himself.

     It takes him several minutes to be able to focus on his face. Where once was smooth ivory skin is now only hair, deep brown and matted. He has quite a beard, and the curved horns are monstrous. His lips are thin brown lines closed over yellow fangs. But his own blue eyes look out at him, glaring and caustic. Ashamed. Adam drops his eyes from his reflection and sighs. Belle's voice is in his head. _You're not nearly as hideous as you seem to think_. Adam takes a deep breath, and looks again.

     He thinks of the library, of his mother, of the staff whom he loves. He thinks of walking in the snow, and poetry, and dancing deep into the night. Happy thoughts, ones that alter the expression on his face from its permanent scowl. There. He can see himself after all, under the creature's skin. _I am still here_.

     Maybe he is not so monstrous. Maybe, maybe Belle is right. Maybe, maybe, if she is right, then Lumiere is, too. _No. Don't think like that. You are a creature, will always be a creature. She will never love you_. But Adam can look himself in the eyes again. He will not recoil from himself anymore. He heaves in another deep breath. The only way now is forward.

 

 

Author's Note: Sorry again for the late update! It's a bit hard to keep up a writing schedule and be on holiday. Wales next, and then Germany. Whoo-boy. As always, thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think in the comments! Also, if there is anything you'd like to see me write after I've finally finished this challenge, just ask. I'm always up for prompts and inspiration!

 


	27. Blue

     From the time he is small, color captivates Adam. Red is the sweep of a cardinal's long cloak as he walks into mass at Versailles. Brown and dove grey and deep mauve are his father the Prince's clothes, designed to showcase his manly physique. Soft ivories, rose pinks and lavenders are the colors of Princess Maria-Eleanor, though she also wears leaf green and soft peach and pale yellow and dove grey as the mood suits her. Mrs. Potts is fine printed linen, Cogsworth and Lumiere gold silks and velvet. Plumette is always in white, with gold make-up around her eyes even when she is still small. And for Adam, almost from birth, there is blue. Midnight blue, ocean blue, blue the color of cornflowers, of the summer sky, blue the color of a peacock's feathers. Adam's world is a sensual riot of color and fabric, woven into the very way he thinks and feels.

     As a child, Adam loves nothing more than sitting beside his mother as she reads and rubbing the fabric of her skirts between his fingers. Maria-Eleanor laughs and tells him how cloth is woven and clothing is made. She lets Adam come to her dress fittings, lets him tell her what colors he likes best. A knowledge of fashion is essential in the nobility, and Maria-Eleanor cultivates Adam's tastes. It is the one thing she does of which the boy's father approves.

     After she dies, Adam finds solace in the fashion papers that come out of Versailles. It soothes the tightness in his chest to examine them and work with a tailor towards creating each new ensemble that he wears. His tastes grow and expand as he ages, for it is one interest that his father does not try to thwart. The Prince de Courcy holds nothing but contempt for his son, but even he has to admit that the boy looks exquisite in his suits of dragonfly green, of blue velvet, of pale gold.

     When the Prince de Courcy dies and Adam assumes his title and role, he wears deepest black mourning. It is only proper, though Adam feels not one whit of grief. As soon as he can, he casts mourning aside and returns to a world awash in color and pleasure and debauchery. It is almost enough to make him forget that he is lost and falling freely, with no net to catch him.

     The Enchantress, when she is finished transforming them, leaves the master and staff of the castle in a strange twilight world, one washed in the pale blue-grey light of winter. Light does not seem to penetrate the castle. All of its finery is muted, washed out. Adam spends the first two weeks alone in the West Wing, not eating, not washing, not wearing any clothes at all. (He will never forget the way his new form burst out of his fine suit, leaving it in pieces on the ballroom floor.) He is monstrous and frightened and so devastated that he can barely lift himself off of the floor. It is not until Lumiere threatens to burn the door down that he admits anyone into his quarters. Lumiere forces him to dress. Adam dons a plain shirt and breeches and an old banyan. It will be months before he changes them. There doesn't seem to be any point.

     The staff tells him not to despair, but Adam does not, cannot, listen. It is not something he chooses, this weight on his chest that crushes his lungs, the hopelessness that pervades his soul. It is as though he has fallen into a gaping black pit, one from which there is no escape. And so he ceases to care about his appearance, which once meant so much to him. He lets the clothes Chapeau lays out for him rot to rags against his coarse fur.

     And then _she_ comes.

     Adam does not delude himself for a moment that Belle will love him. But she is a gentle tyrant (sometimes) and she drags him back into life. The morning after the wolf attack, Chapeau presents him with a clean shirt and breeches and waistcoat, a stern look on his brass and wood face. His mostly-silent aide does not need words to tell Adam that he will dress and be presentable for the lady. Adam has no energy left to fight with, and meekly dons the clothing. Belle comes back from the washroom carrying a long blue coat, faded and worn, but comfortable.

     “This is nice,” she says, and holds it open for him when he struggles out of bed to show her the library.

     And it _is_ nice. Adam had forgotten the feel of clean fabric against his body, the smoothness of silk and wool under his fingers. It is nice to wear proper clothes, to bathe and let Chapeau brush out his fur (though he does not allow himself to be styled in any way, much to the aide's annoyance). It makes him feel strangely human, though he can never let himself forget that he is a creature.

     Belle is always neat and tidy. Adam never paid much attention to peasants before (or anyone, really) but it pleases him to look at her. Belle is not a conventional beauty (nor, as she snaps when he mentions it, is she a peasant thank you _very_ much); she is very thin, and her face can go from winsome to stubborn with barely a moment's notice. She wears short skirts and embroidered bodices, and her jackets are reversible. Most of her clothing is blue, which Adam approves of. Belle looks good in blue. (He thinks she would look good in most colors.) She dresses very simply; Adam can't imagine how she manages to stay simple when she is sharing a room with Madame de Garderobe, but he doesn't dare to ask.

     Of course, there is no question of simplicity after he asks her to dance with him. Adam is in too much of a panic that evening to wonder what Belle will wear, but he keeps his head enough to request that Plumette and Chapeau find him something blue to wear. Belle likes blue; it stands to reason that if he wears a darker shade of the color, he will match whatever she is wearing. Chapeau brushes out Adam's mane and plaits it, then disappears with Plumette for a long time. When they return, they are carrying a coat and waistcoat the color of sapphires, embroidered with gold thread. Not embroidered, Plumette says, giggling. Painted. Adam looks closer at her handiwork, impressed. He hasn't seen anything so fine in years, and tells her so. Plumette preens a little at that. And once he is wearing the beautiful suit, Adam feels less foolish about dancing with Belle.

     Her dress is yellow. It sparkles in the candlelight, a dress entirely departing with fashion as Adam knew it. Belle's arms are bare, for one, and the skirts are all wrong, but somehow the creation is so beautiful on her that he doesn't care. And it is good to dance with her. Belle has been on a crusade to make Adam feel human again, and at this moment, he forgets that he is a beast, a creature.

     Then she leaves, and everything goes dark and cold. But she comes back, a shining light in the darkness, and brings with her hope and triumph and freedom from the curse. And Adam, swaying a little on his human legs, dresses in a worn blue coat and holds Belle's hands and smiles, and smiles.

     “We must have a celebration!” Lumiere exclaims, and Adam agrees. He wants to dance with Belle again.

     “And I will make you _such_ a suit!” Madame de Garderobe exclaims.

     “Blue,” Adam requests. Blue like cornflowers, like the summer sun, like Belle's own skirts.

     “Of course,” Madame replies.

     And the suit she brings to him is just that: soft blue, the color of the sunlit sea, and Adam, seeing it, feels another rush of the joy that has filled him since turning to see Belle staring at his human self. The brocade is soft under his fingers, and Adam grins up at Madame de Garderobe.

     “Thank you,” he says, trying to put a lot of unsaid things into the words.

     And the diva smiles and pats his hand. “Ah, _principe_ , you are alive again. We all are.”

     The ball is a sensual riot of flowers and music and people. The village has turned out in all its finery, but Adam does not see it. All he sees is Belle, in a white dress splashed with flowers, more flowers in her hair. She is stunning, and he takes her into his arms and forgets everyone around him in the joy of dancing with her. Belle sweeps her hands over his brocade arms and leans close.

     “I like this color on you,” she murmurs. “It matches your eyes.”

     And Adam, incandescent with joy, takes her into his blue-clad arms and sweeps them both along.

 

 

Author's Note: Another prompt that got away from me! I think I've managed to pull it off, though I'd like to focus on Adam's sartorial journey in a different piece, later. This week I am in Wales, so I'm a bit distracted. I'm hell-bent on finishing this challenge, though. Also, I'm still taking requests as to what to write after the challenge, so if there's something you'd like to see me try, just let me know! And as always, thank you for reading and please let me know what you think in the comments!

 

 


	28. Arrow

 

     Being a prince of the realm brings with it many joys and privileges, but Adam cannot say that he has any taste for hunting. Oh, he enjoys riding out with the other gentlemen, the chase, the banter and wit, and the triumphant return. But he cannot help but feel pity for the hunted, and rarely bothers to shoot anything himself.

     “I would sooner hunt the corridors than the woods,” he remarks whenever questioned, “for the sweeter pleasure lies indoors.”

     And the courtiers around him chuckle at the rude quip, and acknowledge that Adam's conquests are indeed usually female, and none of them has yet been killed, stuffed, and had its head placed on a wall. (Thank God, Adam thinks.)

     After the curse, Adam doesn't leave the castle grounds. He has no reason to go beyond the gates, and the fear of being discovered and hunted like an animal makes him cold and sick inside. He knows what would happen to him if the world at large discovered him there in the castle, and so he hides inside for months on end. It is safer that way.

     When the mob does finally come to the castle, Adam feels nothing but resignation. So this is how it will end, after all. He wishes he were not so frightened.

     When it is all over, after he has been hunted and beaten and killed, and yet somehow come back, Adam decides that he will never hunt again. There is no need for him to explain this to anyone. Those who know him well understand, and those who don't, Adam does not feel the need to enlighten. But it is Belle, as usual, who shakes him free of the last of the fear.

     At breakfast one morning, a month after the curse has broken, she arrives at breakfast with Matthieu the puppy and Margaret the kitten at her feet, a bow and quiver in her hands. Adam, about to take a sip of coffee, stops dead.

     “What on earth is that?”

     “A bow and arrow,” Belle says. “Did you know there's a weapons' gallery here?”

     “I did know, and I can't say I have any interest in it. Why have you brought those things here?” Adam is more upset than he had thought he would be. Matthieu, sensing this, comes to paw at his leg. Adam picks his puppy up and glares at Belle.

     “We are going to set targets on the lawn,” Belle replies, ignoring her fiance's affronted look, “And shoot at them.”

     “Why?”

     “For pleasure,” Belle replies. “And because I want to.”

     Adam grumbles a bit at that. Belle fixes him with one of her saucy looks. “Just think, mon coeur: an archery lesson allows a teacher to stand _quite close_ to his pupil. And a target is not alive.”

     Adam has to concede the point. He follows Belle outside, to wear the target has been set up on one of the formal lawns. He suspects that she has planned this in advance, for Monsieur Cuisinier packs them a hamper of refreshments, and Belle is dressed in a loose blue and white striped gown that will allow her room to move her arms as an archer. She is strong, able to pull the bowstring back, and Adam finds that he does in fact take great pleasure in standing almost flush to her, directing her arms and correcting her posture. Belle is a willing and quick student, and soon enough is sending arrows flying into the straw target.

     “I could get good at this,” she remarks.

     “You're good at everything you try,” Adam replies, not out of flattery, but in earnest.

     Belle leans back and lets her cheek rest against his. “Not everything,” she murmurs. “There is still a great deal that you have to teach me.”

     She brushes her lips to his and smiles, and Adam reflects that he can see the point of an archery lesson after all.

 

 

Author's Note: Short and sweet. I've had the damnedest time coming up with something for this prompt, not helped by the fact that I've had to get myself from Wales to Berlin, which meant I got to ride three different trains, the London Underground, and an air plane. Two more to go! I'm really going to do them. Please let me know what you think!

 


	29. Grass

 

     Cogsworth has cleaned up his fair share of messes in his time, and he has witnessed more than his fair share of the nobility doing stupid things. But he has never seen anything like this: Prince Adam, nineteen years old, resplendent with youth and beauty and promise, dressed in an exquisite turquoise and gold suit, crying at the foot of his bed in the servants' apartments at Versailles.

     It is going on for two in the morning and Cogsworth, for the life of him, cannot figure out what is wrong with the young man.

     “Cogsworth,” the boy says in a giddy little whisper. “There are _fairies in the garden_.”

     Cogsworth glaces out the window; the night is still alight with torches as the young court amuses itself. He knows that there are, ahem, nymphs in the garden. Fairies, though...

     “They promised to teach me to fly,” Adam continues, his blue eyes wide. “I don't want to fly, Cogsworth.”

     “Certainly not,” the old man agrees, rising from his bed and reaching for a dressing gown. Something is wrong with the boy's eyes. They are more black than blue, the pupils so dilated that only a sliver of their true color can be seen. “Come, come, my prince, sit down.”

     “I told them I would tell on them,” Adam whispers, letting Cogsworth guide him to a chair. “I ran all the way to you. They won't hurt you. They like you.”

     “Really? I can't say I've ever met a fairy.” Cogsworth gets his hands onto Adam's shoulders, something he would never have been able to do if Adam were in his right mind. “Now, Prince Adam. Tell me what has happened.”

     “There are fairies-”

     “In the garden, yes, and they want to teach you to fly. Tell me what happened before the fairies.”

     Adam is shaking under Cogsworth's hands. He gives a strange little smile. “We were whoring in the gardens.”

     “Prince Adam!”

     “Well, we _were_!” the Prince seems suddenly put out, pouting under his elaborate make-up. “And then old Marzipan-Mazarin I mean-he said that he had cigars, only they were expensive and exotic, from the Americas. He offered them to us all. And the King said, he said...” Adam wanders away for a moment; Cogsworth shakes him and he comes back. “He said that if they were what Marzipan-Mazarin-was implying, we ought to leave the wenches and smoke under the stars.”

     “And did you?” Cogsworth asks, wryly.

     Adam giggles. “Yes. Only then there were fairies in the garden, and they threatened me, and I came to find you. You can protect me from them, can't you, Cogsworth?”

     Cogsworth sighs. Expensive and exotic American cigars indeed. Well did that Comte de Mazarin deserve his reputation as a libertine, if he was bringing _those_ to court. The King may very well know what he was smoking, but Adam had never been exposed to grass before, and the American variety was well-known to be particularly strong. He gives his prince a harsher shake than he had intended. Adam, floating up somewhere near the ceiling, returns to earth with a crash.

     “I will take you to your rooms, my prince, and send for Chapeau,” Cogsworth says.

     Adam clutches at his sleeve. “Please, don't send me back to Father. He'll kill me.”

     “Monsieur le Prince will do no such thing,” Cogsworth tries to soothe, even as his heart sinks. The Prince would only be furious that his son has left the monarch in the gardens.

     “He will!” Adam insists, his blue-black eyes full of horror. “He wishes I was dead. He told me so. He says, he says...” Adam floats away again, and Cogsworth sighs. He knows what the Prince de Courcy says.

     “Come, come, lad, have courage. We need to get you to bed.”

     “I want to stay here.”

     “Prince Adam-”

     “Please, please let me stay here!” The terror in Adam's eyes frightens Cogsworth. His voice begins to rise. “They're going to come for me, in the dark, when I am all alone. Only _you_ won't let them come, Cogsworth, because you love me, don't you? _He_ won't care; he'll stand aside, but you won't, will you? Please, Cogsworth, don't leave me!”

     Adam grips Cogsworth's arm; he is trembling now that the drug is playing on his darkest fears. The old man sighs and puts his hand on Adam's shoulder. “I won't leave you, my prince. Let me get Chapeau, he will help us.”

     But the door is opening and Chapeau is already there, roused by Adam's shout. Cogsworth is mightily glad to see him; he has never been one to comfort and cajole royal children. Between them, they manage to get Adam up and undressed, washing the make-up from his face and tucking him into Cogsworth's bed.

     “You won't leave me, will you?” Adam keeps asking. “You won't let them hurt me?”

     Cogsworth and Chapeau reassure him as best they can, and sit with him until he is asleep. They both know that they are powerless to stop the one person who really wants to hurt Adam, and they know that once the drug has worn off, Adam will become his usual hard-hearted self, aloof and disdaining all contact with them. They both know that he will pretend to be invulnerable.

     “My poor prince,” murmurs Chapeau.

     “Indeed,” replies Cogsworth. His heart goes out to the boy. Where will he end?

     Adam, under their watch, sleeps.

 

 

 

Author's Note: I fell off the bandwagon with the June Challenge, for which I apologize and offer the flimsy excuse that I was chaperoning a group of teenage orchestra students in Germany and Austria, and it was both time consuming and exhausting, though great fun. Misadventures include watching one teen get chased across an Austrian alm by an angry Alpine cow, watching another zipline upside down across a ravine while wearing an Asterix hat, and being forced ("forced") to drink most of a bottle of expensive champange that the kids ordered at a fancy Mozart Dinner Concert "because we're over the legal drinking age here" and then decided they didn't actually like champagne. So. 

I write this chapter as someone who has never smoked pot and so can't tell you what the side effects are first hand. Such drugs and more would have been freely available at Versailles, as would the "nymphs" that Cogsworth references-Louis XV had a bit of a thing for sexy young prostitutes, which were euphemistically called "nymphs" at court. For an interesting post on 18th Century drug use, have a look at The History Girls: http://the-history-girls.blogspot.com/2017/01/high-times-in-18th-century-by-debra.html

And for heaven's sake, if you go to the Alps, stay away from the cows.

 


	30. Ending

 

     Dinner is over, and Adam retires to the library. The others are going to listen to music in the little drawing room, but he is old, and wishes only for a book and a glass of brandy before bed. It has been a good day, but an active one, and Adam isn't the young man he once was. And so he kisses his children and grandchildren (and even his young great-grandson) good night and makes his slow way upstairs.

     It is not too late at night, and he has ample time to read to Belle before bed.

     Adam misses his wife more than he has ever missed anyone before, but he knows that she is at peace. Gone these three months, she is with him every day, walking in the gardens, reading in the library, playing with their grandchildren. They are all gone, Cogsworth and Lumiere and Plumette, Chapeau and Mrs. Potts and Cuisinier. Adam is the last. He mourns them, but he knows they will meet again. He knows they were all happy.

     It takes Adam a long time to walk to the library. He has to stop once or twice to let his breath catch up to him. His chest gives a funny little hop; it hurts, but not too badly. Adam is not concerned. He is nearly ninety-his heart does funny things sometimes. Once he is in the library, he settles into his favorite chair by the fire and puts his feet up. He rubs his aching chest. Oh, to be a younger man again. Adam smiles, remembering. What a life he has had. Every day with his gentle tyrant, his darling Belle, was an adventure. They filled their castle with light and love, and they took good care of their people. Adam's lands are some of the most prosperous in France, his people the most well-off. Belle would not stand for poverty among their citizens, and their children and grandchildren carry on the tradition of loving kindness. Yes, it has been a good life.

     Adam rubs his chest again and leans back. Maybe he will rest a moment before going in search of a book. He likes to read aloud to Belle of an evening, and she would like the work of this bitingly sarcastic English lady author. (He knows Belle is not here anymore, but old habits are hard to break, and he is ninety and is allowed to be silly.) But first, a short rest. Just a moment.

     “Adam!”

     He opens his eyes with a start, certain there was no one in the room with him when he entered the library. Belle stands before him, wearing the rose-covered white dress she wore at their celebration ball, after the curse was broken so many years ago. She looks exactly as she did then, young and cheeky and absolutely lovely.

     “Belle,” he says, surprised. “You came back!”

     Belle gives him a sardonic look. “Of course I came back. I told you I would.”

     “You're not old anymore.”

     Belle snorts. “Well spotted, my love. I've missed you.”

     Adam holds out his hands to her; she takes them and comes to sit on his knees. “I missed you,” he says, embracing her. She smells of flowers and ink and paper, and Adam's heart swells within him. “Tell me you're going to stay for a while.”

     Belle returns his embrace and kisses his cheek. “I rather think _you_ are going to stay with _me_. I have so much to tell you!”

     Adam grins at her. Belle always makes him feel so alive, so able. “Are you happy?”

     “Very,” she replies. “Adam, I've met my mother. And I've met your mother, too. They are both lovely women, and so proud of us. And all of the others are here, too, Papa and Plumette and Lumiere and Cogsworth. We've missed you so much. Too much!”

     “I've missed you all, too,” Adam says again. Something she said comes back to him. “You met my mother?”

     Belle nods. “She's lovely, I see her every day. Do you know, she watched over you every single day after she came here? She didn't rest until we were married, and even then she still looked in on us every so often. My mother did, too. They are great friends.”

     “Can we-can we see them?” Adam cannot let go of his Belle, but the thought of seeing his mother again after a separation of nearly eighty years is enough to bring tears to his eyes.

     “Of course!” Belle stands, skirts swirling, and holds out her hands. “Come on, Adam. Race me.”

     Adam springs to his feet and catches her before she can run off, swirling her around. He is strong again, firm on his feet, wearing the pale blue suit he wore that joyful day. He whirls Belle around and laughs and shares her kiss, then takes her hand and runs along with her, out of the library and into beyond. And she is right-everyone is there waiting for them, with open arms and open faces and laughter and kisses. He will never have to say goodbye to them again.

     He is home.

 

 

Author's Note: Yes, I went there. And as Bugs Bunny would say, that's all folks!

 


End file.
